Hell Week

**Year**
-1 NAC

Freed from the stringent schedule, the constant drilling, the mental and physical exertion, the verbal abuse by their superiors, two thousand young men and women had suddenly been freed to wander like zombies through the fenced-off camp. As they looked at each other, those that still had energy and humor left in them might have laughed at how similar they looked one to the other. All had shaved heads and identical uniforms, green camo jackets, green camo pants, tan boots, black berets, tan undershirts. Yet it was a sign of how strong the Army Special Forces' conditioning was that, as they moved around the camp, they moved in their platoons. Some had developed leaders who had an idea of where they wanted to go and what they wanted to do. Others milled about aimlessly.

Until, that is, someone discovered Warehouse 5. Drawn by the light and the sound of music in the fading afternoon, the recruits had discovered that the Army Band had been brought in. They weren't playing any of that old timey crap, the patriotic fife tunes that Max had heard at parades. No, Max could hardly believe his ears. It *was* dance floor music, but the instruments were all wrong. It had made him laugh, and laugh––laugh for the first time in four weeks, and brought tears to his eyes. Then, when the platoons started to merge and recruits started to mingle and talk, Max had grabbed Erich's arm escaped from his platoon and looked for their teammates from Unit 52.

He had found Conrad and pulled him to a conveniently deployed arrangement of crates––probably moved out of the warehouse in preparation for what was happening––so they could talk. After four weeks, Max couldn't say the reunion had been especially warm. Deep trenches had been dug progressively under their eyes. Despite the thrum of energy in the air, their heads and shoulders hung, their voices were low, and they all wanted to be in bed.

And then he had spotted Kaz. How could he not? Kaz would stand out in every crowd, and in this sea of homogeny her head of fiery curls stood out like a lick of flame in the middle of a barn. Apparently she liked to dance. Max knew he should have seen that coming, but somehow it still had caught him off guard. Was it weird that he was watching her? How she had the energy to bounce off the walls like that, Max could not figure.

"Think you're going to go out there, sport?" Conrad asked him, seeing his perplexity.

"Are you kidding?" Max said uneasily, flexing his artificial fingers, "I might do permanent damage to the parts of my body which are still functioning, let alone my pride."

"That bad, huh?" Erich said lackadaisically, his cheek burrowed in one of his bionic palms.

"I'm sore all over," Max said, reaching back to stroke his shoulder, where metal met bone and flesh, "Three days ago, I woke up I could barely move."

"And I couldn't bend my right arm," Erich said with a grimace.

Conrad sighed, "Really? You boys are *that* out of shape?"

Max glanced up into his sunglasses with a defiant look, "And what, were you an exercise nut before you got your eyes?"

"Actually..." Conrad started to correct him.

Max seemed appalled, "What?! I thought that's just how your body *is*."

"Uh," Conrad said, curling his arms, "Man, biceps like these take *work*, you know?"

"Huh," Max exclaimed with a touch of sarcasm, "Maybe I *might* know, if only I *had* biceps. Besides, you couldn't even see them!"

"So?" Conrad said, shrugging his shoulders "They feel good, that's what matters."

"Pfft..." Max said moodily.

"Hey," Conrad said, "I have something that might cheer you up. You know how each station has its own Sergeant?"

"Yeah," Max said, "They do that to make this whole thing more efficient, it's built like a poultry factory."

"And we're the chickens," Erich commented sourly.

"Yeah well," Conrad shrugged his shoulders with a grin, "Down at the firing range, the Sergeant came over to me and asked me why I was wearing sunglasses––"

"They rapped on you for wearing sunglasses?" Max scoffed, "Why did they do that?"

"It was six in the morning," Conrad pointed out.

"Oh," Max said, grimacing, "Well that makes more sense. So what did you do?"

"I took 'em off," Conrad said, barely repressing a giggle.

Max felt himself smile, and Elrich was smiling too.

"And?" they pressed him together.

"He made me put them back on pretty much immediately. Man, you should have seen his FACE."

The three of them laughed until Erich cut in.

"Oh––You should have seen Max at the hand-to-hand combat station," Erich grinned, "He was wearing sleeves and gloves, and the instructor threw a punch at him, yelling *Defend yerself!* Max raised his forearm to block and––" Erich mimed the event with his arm, the instructor's arm hitting Max's metallic forearm at full speed.

"Holy shit," Conrad said, "For real? What happened?"

Max grinned, "Let's just say the next time I saw that guy, his arm was in a sling."

Conrad stared at him, horrified, and Max thought for a beat that he was going to reprimand him or something, but then he saw the sniper's lips twitch, and they were laughing again, laughing so hard that tears came.

"We're really not cut out for this, are we?" Max was the first to bring it up, "We're not like the others."

"Well," Conrad said, "I'm getting off okay, all things considered; Despite my blindness, I was sort of an athletic type. Erich seems to be holding it together. But you, you're like a reed that's about to snap, Max."

"*Thanks*," Max grimaced, "I appreciate your insight, Conrad. Who needs a fortune cookie?"

"Don't mention it buddy. Anytime," Conrad laughed, seeming just a little bit uncomfortable, "And Max?"

"Yeah?"

"Not to sound weird or overly formal," Conrad seemed uneasy, "But shouldn't we be using our ranks and last names? If the Sergeants heard us talking like this, our platoons would have to do pushups."

"Oh, right," Max's lips tightened, "I forgot about that, I kind of just slipped back into it. What's your last name again?"

"You don't know my last name?" Conrad barely seemed surprised, but he still dug in with his usual sarcasm, "Come on man, after all we've been through? That cuts deep."

"I'm bad with names, okay?" Max exclaimed, throwing his bionic arms out on either side, "Don't take it personally. It's not you, it's *everyone*."

"Uh-huh," Conrad said skeptically, "Well, it's Kastner. Recruit Kastner to you, Recruit Hoffman."

"Ugh," Max grimaced, "You know, I don't think I'll ever get used to that. It sounds you're referring to my dad after he's been demoted like fifteen times."

"Well, it *is* the same name," Erich offered unhelpfully.

"No shit," Max rolled his eyes.

"How is he, by the way?" Conrad asked.

"The court martial is next week," Max sighed, "Dad's confident."

"That's... good?" Conrad offered with some uncertainty.

"Dad's been confident about a lot of stupid shit," Max said with a grimace.

"Uh-huh," Conrad intoned awkwardly; he was doing his best, but he just didn't seem to know how to approach the subject, "Not too worried?"

"I haven't had the time to think about it," Max muttered unpleasantly.

"That's fair," Conrad laughed a little, "Given the circumstances."

Max stared at him for a moment, then moodily gave up the line of conversation. The other two kept going while his eyes drifted back inside the warehouse. Against his will, they found Kaz. Pretty soon, they were glued to her.

"Hoffman. *Hoffman*?" Conrad was saying, "Oh for the love of Mother––*Max*. Hello? Come on, it's no fun if you're not listening when we're talking to you."

"Hm?" Max said, turning back towards them.

"Oh come on Max," Erich grumbled, seeming none too happy, "This is getting pathetic."

"What?" Max snapped.

"You're staring at her," Erich griped.

"I haven't seen her in a while," Max said––grasping for an excuse, that was the best he had been able to come up with.

"Yeeeaaah...," Conrad pinched his nose, "Man, you've known her for what? Six months now? This is getting painful to watch. *Just go and talk to her*. She *knows* you, it's okay. Better yet, *ask her out*. Please, for the all our sakes. I'm begging you."

Max flushed with anger. His fists curled into tight metallic balls, his cheeks suddenly felt hot, and his stomach tensed. He stared at his other two teammates down, wanting to draw the line, to feel like a lion roaring, like a bear baring his fangs, like an alpha demonstrating his dominance. But even as the anger flared in his eyes, there were tears welling there too. Deep down, some part of him knew it was an act, the impotent rage of a desperate, wounded, cornered, and lonely animal.

"Don't give me that look, champ," Conrad said sternly, "I'm not fucking with you. I can see what this place is doing to you. You need something good to happen to you tonight, more than anyone else."

Erich shook his head, turned his back, and crossed his arms. He seemed similarly wrought with anger, but Max did not know why, nor did he care.

"'Something good,' huh?" Max grumbled, staring into Conrad's sunglasses. If he stared long enough, he thought, he might be able to discern the faintly glowing translucent blue eyes just beyond, "You know, if I thought I had a *chance,* I would have. Long ago. But let me let you into a little secret about the wonderful world of Recruit Max Hoffman––it ain't gonna happen."

"Would you even know how?" Erich needled him tersely.

"No," Max snapped, "Would you?"

"Yes," Erich said through gritted teeth.

"Fucker, that's a lie," Max spat, his rage flaring up again.

"Okay," Erich said, taking a breath, "Maybe it is."

"How have you two survived sleeping in the same bunkhouse for so long?" Conrad exclaimed, covering his face, "It's like Karia's Most Eligible Bachelor up in here."

"Who's The Bachelor in that analogy?" Max asked, puzzled.

"Both of you?" Conrad threw his arms up in the air, "Neither of you? Just fucking make a decision already!"

"Alright fine," Max grit his teeth and rose from his crate, "I'll do it, I'll talk to her."

### Part 2

It had been one thing to look into the chaos and debauchery of Warehouse 5, but it was entirely another take the plunge. Max was swept away by the current of bodies, sucked into the press before he understood what was going on. The air hung heavy around his lungs, leaden with the stench of sweat, supercharged with body heat, and vibrating with music so loud it was no longer music, but *sound*, pulsations that Max could feel throughout his entire body.

The semi-darkness of the room granted anonymity, and Max *felt* before he could *see* the fact that shirts and jackets had begun to come off. As he passed, his clothes stuck to the slickness of bare backs and chests, and in the flashing lights of handheld torches Max saw the well-defined figures of the recruits who were supposed to be his peers. Max felt excitement welling within him. It had been overwhelming at first, and Max had tried to remain in control, but as he jostled around and fought, he had realized––*you're not supposed to remain in control.* You're supposed to let go.

Max started to let go, but then he saw it. It was a flash, a split second seared onto his brain which happened so quickly Max could not be sure he had actually seen it. Five guys. Tall. Shirtless, with muscles rippling, strutting like peacocks at the center of attention. The afterimage lingered, seared into his brain. Max heard hooting, and he remembered who he was. He wasn't like them. He wasn't a tough or an athletic guy. He was the scrawny, short, underpowered, video game nerd with a big mouth who was failing every test basic training had to throw at him. He saw the way those same guys––or guys just like them––had taunted him, ostracized him, hated him, pressured him to give up, to drop out, so the platoon wouldn't have extra fire duty, or wouldn't have to do pushups until they could no longer lift themselves off the ground.

*I can see what this place is doing to you. You need something good to happen to you tonight, more than anyone else.*

*Bionic boy,* one woman had called him, *Drag on the team, clunky, rusty, reed, twig, toothpick, twerp, runt,* there were so many little barbs––and even when they didn't say anything Max could see it in their eyes. He pretended not to see it. He pretended not to hear any of it. He pretended not to care.

*Dipshit.*

*Just give up already!*

*Prick, douchebag, sonuvabitch...*

But he did see. He did hear. He did care.

*. . . irredeemable fuckwit, clown, tool...*

*. . . YOU'RE USELESS, YOU HEAR ME?*

*. . . dick, ass, asshole, jerk, jerkass, grapeface...*

*. . . WOW KAZ, does your ass ever get jealous of the shit that comes out of your mouth?*

Max had laughed, and he had kept laughing, and laughing, and laughing. He had spread his armor so thinly there was almost none of it left. Before, he had pushed the world away, to keep it at arms length, but now he didn't even have the energy to push. So the world just stuck to him, taunting him, wearing him down.

*. . . COME ON, GIVE ME TWENTY MORE HOFFMAN, PUSH!*

*Just tell a joke Max!* Max told himself, *Just make fun of his hat or his dick or something. Make a joke. Make other people laugh. IT'LL BE FINE.*

As he tried to orient himself on the dance floor, he had forgotten why he was there. Exhaustion tugged at his body. He was having trouble breathing. He was dizzy and wobbly. He was gonna cry like the little bitch he was, but at that point Max had stopped caring. The universe could end, and Maximilian Hoffman wouldn't shed a tear.

Max felt someone grab him fiercely by the arm, tugging him so hard he thought the whole thing would come off. In the next instant, the cold of the night air lashed his back through his soaked recruit's fatigues like a whip. He was pinned against a wall, and when his vision cleared there were eyes of jade looking sternly down at him, mere inches from his face.

*Oh no, this isn't happening,* Max thought, horrified.

"Max..." he heard her distantly, "MAX!"

"Ahhh!" Max exclaimed, putting up his hands to protect his face, "I'm here, I'm awake!"

"Holy shit!" Kaz gasped; she had him by the shoulders, pinning him to the wall as if she believed he would fall if she didn't hang on to him, "Max, I'm not gonna hit you. You looked like you were about to pass out. Can you hear me? Are you okay?"

Max felt his eyes begin to swell again as he looked up into hers.

"Max," she said in that tone of voice she used when she wasn't kidding, "Talk to me. Say something."

Max swallowed, broke eye contact with her, and bowed his head, "I'm..."

Very quickly, he regretted having looked down. Kaz was wearing recruit's fatigues like everyone else––trousers, boots, jacket, the whole gamut––*except* for the fact that she had taken off her undershirt to dance in the Warehouse. Her jacket hung open, unbuttoned, and in a split second Max caught sight of her bra and bare stomach. Her smell was overpowering. It made him dizzy. His words caught in his mouth.

"Hey," Kaz said gently, jostling his shoulder, smiling a little in a way Max found vaguely reassuring, "Eyes up here, okay?"

*That's a nice jacket you almost have on,* Max almost blurted out to head off his embarrassment. It was automatic, a reflex. It would have been funny. He would have laughed, but no; he couldn't fuck up. Not then, not with her, not while they were this close.

Max let his cheeks flush and his head dip, partly with shame, partly because he didn't want her to see him. He swallowed and did as he was told, "Sorry, I shouldn't stare. Could you...?" He mimed what he meant with his hands.

"Yeah sure," Kaz said, stepping back from him quickly reaching down to button her jacket.

"It's okay, don't worry about it," she added reassuringly.

"Right," Max said, looking away. They had barely been talking for thirty seconds, and already he felt deflated, like he had been rejected.

Kaz started in the direction of the door, but hesitated as her eyes lingered on him, "I'm going to head back inside. Are you sure you're going to be alright?"

"Yeah," Max lied and forced forced a smile, "I just got a little overwhelmed in there. Thanks for pulling me out."

Kaz stopped and looked at him with a strange expression, part skeptical, part surprised.

"What?" Max said with an edge of irritation.

"Nothing," Kaz said bemusedly, "It's just, you've never thanked me for being nice to you before. You've always just thrown it back in my face. I've learned to expect it."

Max's eyes glistened. As he stood with his back to the warehouse, he felt the vibrations through the concrete wall, and the music blasted through into the outside whenever someone opened the warehouse exit they were right next to. Otherwise, the sounds from inside were muffled, and they could have a somewhat normal conversation. He wished they were somewhere else, though, somewhere alone, but he didn't know how to ask without making it weird. And what if she said no?

Where he stood, he was in the shadow of the warehouse's overhanging roof. Kaz had stepped out into the light of the full moon. Max could see her clearly. There was a light sheen of sweat dripping off of Kaz's brows and sharp nose, and her hair hung loose in a mass of curls spiraling off in every direction. She looked... *right*. She looked confident, right at home, in her element. The uniform fit her perfectly.

It was with a sinking feeling that Max realized that Kaz wouldn't get it. She would make fun of him for being a pussy or something, for being a girl, if he tried to tell her how badly he was struggling, the score he had gotten on the training assessment, how everyone in his platoon hated him. Where Max stood, Kaz couldn't see him, or at least that's what Max hoped.

Max tried to laugh it off.

"Yeah, well," he said, "I can be an idiot sometimes."

This made Kaz genuinely laugh. It made Max feel a little better to see her smile at him, even if there was a hint of a mean-spirited grin there.

"Aw come on!" Max teased, acting offended for the sake of the joke, "You're not gonna deny that?"

"Nooo," Kaz grinned, taking a few steps forward and crossing her arms.

"That's mean!" Max exclaimed.

"You made yourself the butt of that one, space cadet."

"Yeah, I did, didn't I?" he said, pushing himself off the wall and reaching back to scratch the back of his head. He expected his usual unruly tuft of black hair, but all he found there was the scratch of his baldness. His face must've given his reaction away, because Kaz's grin widened.

"Hard to get used to, huh?" she said with a chuckle, "I can't get over Erich without long hair."

"Right?! Holy shit, it's like he's a completely different person."

"And Conrad––" Kaz said, bringing both hands to cover her mouth, but the way her eyes shone told Max she was smiling.

"––looks exactly the same, I know!" Max exclaimed, "It's fucking ridiculous! He looks like the only not-dead-inside person around here."

The two of them were laughing and smiling. This was good. Max felt more at ease.

"How do *I* look?" Max asked, morbidly interested in the answer.

"*Weird...*" she said, her eyes fixating on his bald head.

"... Good weird, or bad weird?" Max asked, perplexed.

Kaz gave a quick shrug, "Weird! Don't ask me to explain it, it's just different. I've never been surrounded by so many bald guys. It's just––"

"––*weird*, I know," Max said with amusement.

"Yeah!" Kaz smiled, then quickly glanced at the door, "Listen, I've got to head back inside, but it was good to see you! I'm glad you're doing okay after four weeks of this."

"Yeah," Max said, knowing full well he was letting his chance slip by, and part of him was counting down the seconds until the moment passed, "I'm glad you're doing okay too. You look good. That uniform fits. I can't place it, but it does."

Kaz seemed to consider the compliment for a second, and then accepted it. She smiled in a way that seemed a little forced and waved him goodbye, "I'll see ya on the other side!"

And like that, she was gone.

"Yeah..." Max said as he watched the door close, "See you on the other side."

### Part 3

Max ran into Conrad on his way back to his bunk. He was talking in a circle with recruits from other units and quickly left to catch up with Max when he saw him.

"Hey Max, hold up! Where you going? Where's Kaz?" he said.

"I don't know," Max bit back, "Probably dancing, or asleep already. Why?"

"Tell me what happened," Conrad stopped, forcing Max to stop too.

Max turned and sighed; he was going to have to say it, wasn't he?

"I was too chicken to do it."

"Aw come on," Conrad crossed his arms, "You disappoint me, man."

"I disappoint myself," Max said bitterly.

## Day 1

### Part 1

The next morning, Max slept through the 4:30 am bugle. Again. At 4:32 am, someone threw back his covers, grabbed him under the shoulders, and dropped him onto the floor. Gasping awake, Max lay there, dazed. Then, his vision cleared, and he saw a tall woman in recruit's trousers, boots, and shirt looming over him. She had long raven-like black hair which descended in knots down to her shoulders, not yet combed and brushed for the day. Max knew instantly what he was dealing with.

Yuna Ravyn was one of Platoon 41's R1's, or First Recruits, a distinction awarded to platoon members who stood out as leaders. Max had heard Kaz had gotten one, but he had forgotten to ask her about it. R1's were the Platoon Sergeant's direct subordinates and assistants and were assigned squads. They slept with their squad and were held responsible for its platoon's discipline, readiness, and conduct. So, in effect, Max sleeping in was her problem as much as it was Max's, or the platoon's problem.

Regulations said that the whole company––all four platoons, 200 people total––had to be dressed, shaved, and lined up by 5:00 am every morning in the Company Area, the courtyard formed at the center of four platoon barracks arranged in a square.

"Get up, Hoffman," she barked in a tone that left no doubt as to her true feelings for him: she despised him, "On your feet, Recruit."

*I'll see you on the other side, Max!*

His muscles aching, his every limb feeling like they were filled with lead and about to fall off, his mind slow, Max rose painfully to his feet and slid into a salute.

"Recruit Hoffman, sir," he said smartly, trying to shake the drowsiness from his voice, "To what do I owe the honor this morning?"

They played this little game at the start of every day, or at least every day Ravyn decided to torment him personally. First Recruit Ravyn stared down at him with surprise. It was fleeting, but Max reveled in it. He looked close at that bemused round face, noting the deep trenches under her eyes, the stress in her snarl, the way her nose wrinkled when she was frustrated or angry––which these days seemed like more and more of the time. Her irises were pitch black, black as her pupils and the strands of her hair, and they were filled with contempt.

*The bitch is just as ragged and worn out I as I am,* Max observed, drawing some satisfaction from the fact, *Come on, Ravyn. Snap. Show us how tried you are. Show us how you're no better than the rest of us.*

Ravyn's lips curled into a snarl.

"Oh, this is new!" she said sarcastically, putting her face up in his, and taking a few steps forward until her boot was crushing Max's toe. She was doing it on purpose, "Recruit Fuckwit has some spunk this morning."

She was speaking loudly enough that in the cramped walkway between bunks, several of Max's squadmates were staring as they scrambled to put on pants, shirts, shoes, and jackets. Many avoided making eye contact with him as they hurried past into the corridor to line up in front of the sinks, clutching their toiletries. As Max glanced in that direction, he saw Erich run up, only to take cover behind the corridor wall so the First Recruit didn't see him.

*Too slow,* Max thought bitterly as he winced at the pain, *You didn't get here in time.*

Max was bare-chested and wore no shoes, which was better than having no pants while being dressed down by Ravyn.

"Yes––hnng––sir," he breathed through gritted teeth, "I'm fired up––and ready to go."

### Part 2

At 4:58, Max rushed out into the chill of the courtyard buttoning his camo jacket and carrying his beret under his arm. He found Erich and fell in line next to him. Both of them stood at ease with their hands behind their backs, occasionally glancing at the hands of the courtyard clock tower which counted down the seconds until the Drill Captain arrived and exercises would begin.

"Hey," Max grumbled, fixing his beret atop his baldness.

"Hey," Erich replied in a low voice, "Sorry I didn't make it in time this morning."

Max let go of some of his anger.

"It's okay, Erich," Max said bitterly, "It's a lot to ask of you to wake me up before she does. Besides, I think she's caught on, and she's making a point to get to me earlier. I think she's doing it just because she's a sadist."

"Are you sure there's nothing you can do to report her?" Erich asked quietly, "And how does she get to you so fast anyway?"

Max shook his head gravely, "R1's have to wake up at five to prepare the groundwork for the rest of us," Max said bitterly, "Just look into their eyes. They've got more power, but the load's also heavier. No wonder few R1's stay R1's for very long, and most give in their commissions just before hell week. It's the military's way of teaching the most ambitious among us that being promoted isn't glamorous. It's a lot of work, and we're all just kids in the end."

"Do you think Kaz is gonna be alright?" Erich asked, suddenly concerned, "I heard she got promoted to First Recruit last week."

*I'm glad you're doing okay after four weeks of this,* Kaz had said.

"I don't know," Max swallowed, realizing that he had no idea; he hadn't asked her how she was doing. She had, though.

*Are you sure you're going to be okay?*

"You saw her yesterday––and you don't know?" Erich repeated incredulously.

"I was having a *moment,* okay?" Max snapped, "There were other things going through my––"

"BRAVO COMPANY AT ATTENTION!"

Two hundred heels clicked in unison.

### Part 3

"Listen, Recruit, I'm sorry," the Corporal at the desk was trying to tell him, "But I don't see how your math adds up. You need 800 points to pass basic training. Even if you score perfectly on all of the live fire exercises and field training exercises this week, it's mathematically impossible. That's what I'm trying to tell you."

Max felt his heart sink in his chest, and his legs felt like jello under him. He had been called away from training with live fire service rifles by an aide who conducted him into the company headquarters and sat him down with the Corporal tasked with overseeing Max's squad during basic training and providing guidance. He peered at him from behind a computer, on which all of Max's evaluation results were being displayed.

*Damn it,* Max thought, his metallic hands curling into tight fists. He was doing fine on most training involving combat and weapons. It was on disciplinary and physical matters that Max's record had taken a beating. Rumor had it that Ravyn had spent all of the negative marks she could possibly assign over the whole of basic training on him, to force him out of her platoon or out of the army altogether. Max could see how she thought Platoon 41 would be better off in its competition with other platoons without him, but he had other plans.

"So you're saying it's inevitable, I'm going to be held back in basic training?" Max asked with trepidation. He was standing with his arms clasped behind his back and his legs spread a shoulder's width apart––it was called "parade rest"––near the middle of the Corporal's office. He held his beret behind his back.

"It looks like it," the Corporal said, swiveling in the chair and giving Max a sympathetic look, "You're close, soldier. You're just going to have to go through some of these exercises again until the Sergeants think you're fit to move on to Phase 4 of training."

*Kaz is an R1!* Max raged within the privacy of his mind, *Conrad and Erich are soaring through this thing, but I'm going to be held back? Fuck, that's bullshit!*

*I'll see you on the other side!* he heard the echo of Kaz's voice say. It had been the hundredth time that day her words had flashed through his mind. They had taken on the aspect of a taunt, a tease, a goodbye, a hello, an invitation, a promise––whatever aspect her sentence took on, it was always her voice, and he could not get it out of his head. The thought of not being there when Kaz and the others "crossed over" absolutely infuriated him, and he knew he would do everything he could to keep that from happening.

*Damn you to hell, Ravyn,* Max thought bitterly, *You're not going to shake me off that easily.*

"Wait, sir," Max said suddenly, "Before you transfer me, a question."

"Go right ahead," the Corporal said affably with a gesture of a hand.

"Thank you, sir," Max said genuinely; he was beginning to appreciate army courtesy, though the formality of it had grated on him at first, "When the drill sergeants announced it, they hinted that the Ground Fighting Competition would net the winner additional points on their file... How many points is it, exactly?"

The Corporal's expression turned to dismay almost immediately, "Okay, maybe it's not *mathematically impossible*––"

"How many points is it, sir?" Max insisted in as polite and respectful a tone as he could.

"––just *highly unlikely*."

Max didn't like using that tone, he had always thought it made him sound like a girl, but when the Drill Sergeants and R1's had taken him to task for "sarcasm" and "attitude," Max had been hard pressed to explain that that's just *how his voice sounds*. They were less than sympathetic. Nineteen years of mocking the world was seriously biting him in the ass.

"It's fifty points, Recruit," the Corporal finally answered sternly, crossing his arms.

*Holy shit, that would just about put me over,* Max realized.

"*If* you convince your platoon to choose you to compete, and *if* you win," the Corporal pointed out, "Those two big *ifs*. Trust me, competition in those things are cutthroat. All of the ambitious types are angling to get in there so they can buff their score and make Corporal early when they get out of here. I've never heard of a recruit who was *failing* use the competitions to pass basic training. That probably shouldn't be even allowed."

"Well sir," Max said, swallowing, "It can't hurt to try."

The Corporal sighed, looked down, and then back up at him, "Fine then, I will delay your transfer. But as soon as you are eliminated, I am moving you the Fitness Training Company. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes sir. Thank you sir," Max said with an unholy mixture of stress and relief flooding his insides, "Is that all?"

"That's all. You're dismissed, soldier."

*Shit,* Max thought as he saluted and was led out, tears welling in his eyes, *Now all I've got to do is learn how to fight with a sword better than––basically everyone else. . . I'm fucked. I'm really fucked, aren't I?*

### Part 4

Max was not able to talk to Erich until 8:00 pm that night. At dinner, they sat together, but with only fifteen minutes to eat and a drill sergeant pacing right behind them, they had not said a word. It was when the platoon finally jogged back to the barracks that Max pulled up beside Erich.

They spoke hastily as they speed-walked through the barracks' narrow corridors.

"Listen, Erich," Max said in a hushed voice.

"What happened to you today?" Erich asked, "You disappeared during the exercises."

"I got pulled away by the ushers. It was about my score on the Military Commencement Test."

Erich gave him a sideways look, "How bad is it?"

Max thrust his hands into his pockets, "Bad. If things continue at this rate, I'll be held back. But I can still make it if I beat the Ground Fighting Competition."

"*If you––*Max, that's insane," Erich groaned, though he seemed to lack the energy to object properly.

Max followed his friend to his bunk and hung around, clinging to one of the bunk posts so he wasn't in the way of Erich's squadmates filing past. Though they were from a different squad, some of them recognized Max, the guy who had made the whole platoon do push-ups probably more than everyone else. Max was used to the silent treatment and icy stares by now, it was those who bumped into him on purpose, and swore at him, whom he had to watch out for.

"It is," Max admitted reluctantly; he tried to remain focused on Erich, "But I've got to try. Can you back me up on this?"

Erich was in the process of freeing himself from his trousers when Max asked the question. Erich didn't seem to want to look up.

"Look, Max," he said, "Maybe getting held back wouldn't be so bad. You're barely treading water as it is. Just catch up with us when you're done."

Max tensed with anger and crossed his bionic arms over his chest.

"I can't do that," he spat bitterly.

"Why not?" Erich bit back.

"Because *I can't!*" Max exploded, "Okay? Can you just accept that?"

Erich sighed, folded and stowed his pants away, and began working on his shirt.

"Okay," he said, "I'll back you up. But if you want to compete, why aren't you at the meeting?"

"Meeting?" Max's heart skipped a beat. Then he understood.

*That bitch!* he raged inside his mind where nobody could hear him.

"Yeah, in the common room," a bare-chested Erich looked at him with urgency finally touching his eyes, "You can still make it if you go now."

"Alright, thanks man!" Max said, waving him off and plunging counter-current into the stream of shambling recruits turning in for an early sleep.

When he made it into the common area, a small alcove next to the communal shower where platoon staff meetings took place, he found a small ring of recruits seated impassively in deployable chairs. There was the Platoon Sergeant sitting in the back of the room with his arms crossed over his chest. His legs were splayed and his peaked cap was drawn close to his eyes. He was there, supervising, but was letting the R1's take the lead.

Ravyn, flanked by the other R1's, was slouching on the counter at the head of the meeting. She was speaking, and Max thought he saw surprise flash in the blackness of her eyes when they made contact with his, but he could have been imagining it. Ravyn was a master at hiding how she really felt.

She didn't miss a beat.

"Ah, Recruit Hoffman," she said in a voice that layered on the honey so thickly it made Max sick; he preferred it when she was cold, biting, and straightforward, but the Platoon Sergeant was here, so she couldn't try anything, "Late as usual, I see."

*I wouldn't be late if you had TOLD ME you were having this little powwow,* Max fumed. But he knew the drill by now.

*I'll kiss her ass now so I can kick it later,* he promised himself.

"Recruit Max Hoffman reporting for duty, sir," Max snapped into a salute.

She gave him a chilly nod, "Pull up a chair from the back and sit down."

"Yes, First Recruit!" he said hoarsely.

"Do it now," she said.

Max did as he was told. He went to the back of the room where the folded chairs were stacked on top of one-another, took one, and planted it in the first row.

"So," Ravyn said in her best imitation of a Drill Sergeant's bark; her voice carried, that much was impressive, "We've called you here because, out of everyone in Platoon 41, you all scored highest in blade training. The Ground Fighting Competition begins on the fifth day of Hell Week and proceeds until the final bout on the seventh day.

"You should all know this by now, but I'm repeating it to be safe. Every one of Bravo Company's four platoons will pick two contenders, for a total of eight. There will be three stages: the preliminaries, semifinals, and the final match. The winner gets fifty extra points on their Military Commencement Test."

Her eyes swept the room searchingly, "Every member of the winner's platoon will be awarded twenty points, so this is not just a test of individual skill. It's a test of how well each platoon can prepare and supports its fighters. Do I make myself clear?"

"YES, FIRST RECRUIT!" they all shouted in unison.

"It's a *team effort,* got it?" she repeated. Even Max, who was notoriously tone deaf, could sense the irritation and hostility in her voice.

*Mother above,* Max thought, *If she was actually nice to us, we might do more of what she asks. But it's just never enough with her.*

"YES, FIRST RECRUIT!" the room replied.

An R1 from the Fourth Squad, First Recruit Heinkel, stepped forward with a clipboard under one arm. He was big, broad-shouldered, a jock, the kind of guy in school you always figured would join the army.

"Listen up," he said, "We will assemble our list of potential contenders from those who scored highest on the Blade Training Program. When I call your name and read your score, you will stand at attention so I can see you and say 'Present.' Then you will say, 'Competing' if you would like to participate, or 'Not competing' if you decline. If you are not competing, you are dismissed. Have I been heard?"

"YES, FIRST RECRUIT!"

"Good," he said, "Recruit Geier, you received a score of 36."

A woman stood and snapped into attention at the back.

"Present," she said, "Not competing."

"Thank you Recruit, you are dismissed," Heinkel said, taking note before reading the next name, "Recruit Hersh, you received a score of 38."

"Present," came the reply, "Competing."

*That's one,* Max thought bitterly as he stole a glance backwards, quickly sizing the kid up to see if he could take him; he liked his chances, certainly against a 38, *There will be more, people with higher scores. Those are the people I really have to look out for.*

"Thank you, you may sit down."

He glanced at Ravyn and briefly met the blackness of her eyes. She was leaning on the counter behind Heinkel with her arms crossed over her chest and a mask of concentration on her face. She had been staring at him. Huh.

"Recruit Klossner, you received a score of 39."

"Present. Competing."

*Two,* Max counted with gritted teeth, *Alright, now there's just those of us with perfect scores.*

"Sit down. Recruit Hoffman, you received a score of 40."

Max sprung to his feet, clicked his heels, and brought his metallic arm up in a salute.

"Present," he said without hesitation, "Competing."

"Thank you, at ease."

Max fell back into his chair.

*Okay, I'm in,* he thought with a sigh of relief as stress and excitement fought for control of his stomach, *That's the first hurdle cleared. Now I've just got to––*

"First Recruit *Ravyn*," Heinkel barked.

*Oh FUCK,* Max thought; he felt his eyes widening, *Fuck, fuck, fuck.*

"––You received a score of 42."

Max was still for a second, staring at the raven-haired woman who was snapping into a salute on the other side of the room. Terror and confusion clutched at his insides.

*WHAT?! How does she have a score above forty? How is that even possible?*

## Day 2

### Part 1

"Alright Pipsqueak," Ravyn's exo suit crackled as she stepped into the ring, the joints whirring and whining as she moved, "You did alright against Klosner and Hersh. Now let's see how you do against me."

Max couldn't see her face behind her suit mask. All he saw was the black gloss of her helmet.

*She's in the lead in terms of points, and I'm just behind her,* Max calculated with gritted teeth, *If I can just hold her off until the timer expires, we'll both advance to the competition.*

They marched to within a couple paces of each other, stopped, and swiped the air with their metallic training swords in salute. Max's bionic fingers coiled around the controls of his suit gloves. It wasn't the armor he was used to, and it was not made to interface with his metal arms, so it had no special powers. But he was getting the hang of it. That was giving him an edge.

*Okay,* he thought, *Let's see what a swordswoman with a forty-two in blade training can do.*

It was almost night on the second day of hell week. They were in one of the blade training squares in the Beta Company courtyard. The bleachers were empty save for three Corporals from the Company Support Unit who were watching them use their equipment. There was no other audience, just the four would-be contestants dressed in power armor. First Recruit Heinkel acted as referee.

Max spread his stance and raised his guard, taking a breath to calm himself. He was tired, but he had to focus.

The others backed out of the ring to give them space.

"Ready?" Heinkel called from the ref's tower above them.

"Ready," Max and Ravyn said simultaneously, not taking their eyes off of one-another.

"FIGHT!"

"AAHH!" Ravyn was on him, her sword flashing faster than Max could see it.

He parried, gave ground, and pivoted into a riposte, but Ravyn easily danced out of range.

*Fuck me sideways,* Max thought, *She's fast.*

She tried to flank him from the left. Max retreated in the opposite direction, keeping her well in front of him.

She tried again, feinting from the right, then again from overhead. Both times Max gave ground, keeping well out of range.

"Well, are you gonna fight me?" Ravyn spat from behind her helmet, her suit's speakers filling the courtyard with sound, "Or is bionic boy as cowardly as he looks?"

Max stole a glance at the clock counting down at the edge of his visor: 4 minutes and 28 seconds left.

*Don't fall for it,* Max grit his teeth, *Just stay calm, stay focused. The clock is on your side. Take your time. No hasty moves.*

They stared each other down as they each took one tentative step forward, tempting fate. Their swords rasped together. Half-advance, half-retreat, advance...

Lunge! Max bat her sword aside and twisted into a powerful thrust at her chest.

"Argh!" she tried to avoid it.

He felt it connect.

*Holy shit!* Max's eyes went big.

Their suits sirens wailed simultaneously. The text, "HIT, NON-SUPERFICIAL, LEFT SIDE" scrolled across Max's visor.

*Huh? Bullshit!* Max couldn't believe it. As they disengaged, he realized she had managed to land an uppercut on him to his flank despite the awkward position he had forced her into. It had happened so fast he hadn't seen it.

"PAUSE!" Heinkel shouted from his chair, "That's a null match. Simultaneous hits don't count, defend yourselves better."

"Hmph," Ravyn said as she walked back a few paces, turned around, and raised her guard.

Max glanced at the clock: it was paused at 3 minutes and 58 seconds.

He could afford to be hit twice. That was it.

*I can do this,* Max took another breath, rolled his shoulders to free some of the tension there, and raised his guard again.

"RESUME!" Heinkel barked.

The clock started ticking down again.

Ravyn surged forward aggressively. She was frighteningly well-coordinated and precise for someone in a suit of power armor. Her cuts were quick and powerful. She aimed to dislocate Max's guard, but he kept it in front of him, wheeling the sword around to parry her next thrust, and the next, and the next. He gave ground, but he couldn't give forever without going out of bounds.

Then, in a sudden flick, Max threatened her left side.

Ravyn wheeled well out of range. Max advanced. She retreated. Their blades scraped together in the middle with a sound that grated on Max's ears.

Max glanced at the clock: 2 minutes and 10 seconds.

There was a flash in his peripheral vision, too fast for him to react. His suit siren wailed. He stood frozen with his guard up.

*What...?* Max's eyes went wide.

"Got you!" Ravyn gasped through her suit.

"HIT, NON-SUPERFICIAL, CHEST," the scrolling text said.

*Damn it,* Max swore. His fingers tensed around the controls so tightly he could feel the creaking of his leather gloves.

"That's a hit for First Recruit Ravyn!" Heinkel bellowed, "Metal boy, you can only afford one more hit before you're off the team."

*Only one hit, huh?* Max thought, *With two minutes and five seconds left to go, it's a little closer than what I was hoping for. Every time one of us gets hit, we lose a point and our opponent gains one. Ravyn is practically guaranteed a spot at this point, but I'm neck-in-neck with Hersh for the second spot. I'm guessing Ravyn would rather see Hersh as her rival in the competition, since there's a small chance they might go-head-to-head, and he's the worse swordsman.*

"I'm surprised the metal pipsqueak's made it this far," Ravyn taunted as she turned her back on Max to return to the center of the ring.

Max followed.

"Is that right?" he replied tersely over the speaker. Anger bubbling up inside of him, he sunk into his ready stance and lifted his sword above his head.

"Yeah, you fight like a girl," she scoffed.

"Yeah, well, you *are* a girl, so..." Max replied sarcastically.

"Why you––"

*Got her,* Max thought with a satisfied grin.

"FIGHT!" Heinkel barked.

Max was on her in an instant, crashing his blade down onto her raised guard with as much strength as he could muster.

"What was that," he growled as he shoved his crossguard forward against hers, not letting her disengage, destabilizing her footing, forcing her to retreat in disorder, "About my fighting like a girl?"

He heard her audibly gasp.

The exo-suit and his bionic arms gave him the strength he had never had before. It felt good to be big. It felt good to be overpowering. It felt good to be able to beat back, blow for blow, all that Ravyn had to throw at him. In the barracks or out in the field, she was his superior. But in the ring, they were equals, and he could unbridle his anger. He had kept it in check out of fear of doing something reckless, but now it flowed like fire in his veins.

"HUH?" he shouted.

"TWERP!" Ravyn screamed from within her suit as she struggled against him.

*BITCH!* Max raged, but he dared not say it out loud, "Hnngrrh!"

She stumbled out of Max's bind, but he did not give her time to recover.

He was on her again, the attacks coming as quickly as he could make them. Thrust, cut, reverse cut, parry, riposte... Pretty soon, Max was breathing hard, and from the sound of it Ravyn was too. But no matter how close he came, she managed to keep the metal of his blade away from her body.

*Come on!* Max raged, *Just one blow, that's all I need!*

Ravyn retreated, and this time Max didn't pursue her. He gave himself time to breathe and check the clock. 40 seconds. He saw Ravyn's suit rise and fall with just how desperately she was gasping for air. Adrenaline coursed through his body, and even his bionic arms were shaking.

*That's all I've got...* Max realized, horrified, *And it wasn't enough.*

"What's the... the matter pipsqueak?" Ravyn taunted between ragged breaths, beginning to circle him again, "Scared?"

34 seconds.

"Scared? What? Of you?" Max spat back, "Nah."

*Shit, she's going to rush me for sure,* Max thought, his whole body tensing, his legs swimming, *She has nothing to lose at this point, and I could still lose everything.*

26 seconds.

Ravyn advanced, Max retreated.

22 seconds.

Ravyn advanced again, Max retreated again.

*How much ground can I give before I'm out?* Max wondered, counting down the seconds. He couldn't glance back and take his eyes off Ravyn, she was too fast and would instantly take advantage of the opening.

19 seconds.

Ravyn advanced. Max held his ground. Their blades scraped together. A feint, an easily blocked riposte. Both were dancing on their feet, responding to their opponents' every twitch.

11 seconds.

*Come on, just a little while longer...*

Max tried to force her back by threatening her legs with a low cut, but she replied by trapping his sword with hers and stepping into it. Max could not believe his luck.

*You won't be able to cut me that way!*

Ravyn pushed with all of the strength her exo suit could muster on Max's hilt. Their swords remained locked between them as they both pushed and shoved at each other. This was how Max ran out the clock. It struck zero, and Heinkel called it.

"THAT'S TIME!" Heinkel shouted, "Stop fighting! Ravyn, Metal boy, you're it."

Ravyn disengaged from Max's sword, seemed to take one long look at him, and then walked wordlessly away. When she was safely out of range, Max let himself slump in the armor, his sweaty forehead hitting his visor. Tears of relief flooded his eyes, and warmth flowered in his chest. He had done it. He had actually done it!

Slowly, he turned around to see how close he had been to being out of bounds.

One more inch, and he would have lost.

## Day 3

### Part 1

At 5:00 am the next morning, Bravo Company assembled in the Company Area like usual. But instead of the before-dawn quiet as recruits stalked to form up in their platoons under darkness, there was a frenzy of activity. A line of lorries (trucks) had been backed into the field where exercises normally took place. Their backs hung open and their engines were running. Disassembled suits of power armor were being offloaded and stacked near each platoon.

"So this is it?" Erich muttered as he shuffled into place next to Max. Both boys glanced at the clock tower. 4:55 am.

"This is it," Max said gruffly, "Hell Week's about to start in earnest. We're being 'deployed.'"

Erich took in a sharp breath and then exhaled. There was a moment of silence between them as they watched the preparations unfold.

"Hey Erich," Max whispered after a while.

"What?"

"I did it," Max made no effort to hide his pride.

"Huh?" Erich said as he sleepily wiped at his eyes, "What did you do?"

"I'm competing in the tournament."

"Wait, seriously?" Erich whispered. He finally seemed to snap awake, though he only stole Max a sideways glance; he kept facing forward as Ravyn and the other R1's paced at the front of the platoon, "You managed to qualify?"

"I beat the first two contenders bloody," Max boasted, "Then Ravyn almost kicked my ass, but I held her off long enough that the clock ran out."

"Well," Erich sounded like he was grimacing, "Congratulations?"

"Didn't think I could pull it off?" Max smirked.

"No," Erich said flatly.

"That's fair, I guess," Max chuckled.

"So if you could only barely hold her off," Erich asked, "How will you win if you go up against her in the competition? There's no timer, you won't be able to just run out the clock."

Now it was Max's turn to grimace.

"I'm still working on that," he said, "I have two perfectly good days to figure it out. It's––"

"QUIET BACK THERE!" Ravyn barked at them.

*I swear to Mother...*

### Part 2

There was total silence inside the lorries as the rugged countryside outside the Ragow Training Station sped past. They were traveling on a mountain freeway. Most of Max's squadmates were lumped forward in their suits, likely asleep behind the glossy blackness of their visors. Max was almost there himself, drifting in and out of consciousness. This was the time for it, but Max couldn't sleep. He had too much on his mind. He was obsessing over his feud with Ravyn and the competition he just *had* to win. He was worried about what would become of him if his career was anything like basic training. He had come up with an acronym for it: ODDAA, pronounced *Oh-dah*, or "One Damn Disappointment After Another." He was also thinking about Kaz and how brilliant and intimidating she was when she smiled.

Max was still waiting for something to click, for his big break, for all the difficulty to melt away, for the credits to roll, and for the whole of his life to unravel before him like "happily ever after." It would only take one more effort, he kept telling himself. If I can only get through this week; if I can only get better at this one skill; if only I can win this competition; if only I can graduate from basic training...

But at nineteen Max had enough pattern recognition and enough data to begin to piece together that most everything he wanted was not just around the next corner. As Max saw the sun rise on another miserable day through the open canopy of an army truck, the boy in the suit grimaced at the hopelessness of his hopes and dreams. They seemed so distant to him then. No, he had to tell himself. If he won the competition, Kaz *wouldn't* just magically jump into his arms. His peers wouldn't make an about face and start to suddenly like him. He *wouldn't* be cured of his awkwardness, or be a good soldier.

*Who am I kidding?* Max thought bitterly as the sun's glare caught him full in the face, *I'm not the hero. I'm just a kid who doesn't know when to quit.*

*I'll see ya on the other side,* Kaz had said to him. He heard it again in the truck as a reproachful whisper.

*Yeah... I'll see you on the other side,* Max sounded even less sure now.

*I'm not like you Kaz,* Max thought as he let himself crumble backwards against the side of the lorry, wetness making its way down his cheeks, *We were both invalids before we got this chance to prove ourselves, but I don't have your looks, your courage, or your ability to make people like you. I have no chance...*

As Max rested his head inside his helmet, his thoughts slowly slipped away into incoherence, and thence on into nothing.

### Part 3

Max awoke again with a start at the sound of commotion. A Drill Sergeant was shouting orders. The sun was high in the sky. The recruits on Max's side of the lorry were scrambling to get out. Max sprung to his feet and retrieved his rifle from where he had kept it between his legs. His pack made maneuvering in the suit more difficult, especially in the cramped interior of the troop carrier. Recruits jostled each other on their way out, almost knocking each other over.

"Out! A Sergeant in military fatigues was shouting at them through a megaphone; he was clutching a stopwatch, "Out! Out! OUT! In good order, c'mon! Line up by your *FTs*!" [FT is the acronym for 'fireteam,' pronounced like the word "fight"]

The Sergeant motioned with his arms to an empty patch of grass next to him, "I want FT 1 here, FT 2 there, three, four, and so on..."

Clutching his rifle, Max hurried to clear the landing so more troops could disembark. As he glanced around, he realized that there were six lorries offloading at once in the same open clearing, which meant that all four squads, all twelve fireteams, all fifty recruits of Platoon 41 were here. A command jeep was stalling nearby, its engine on, its doors open, its antenna perked straight upwards. A handful of other trucks and other personnel had deployed with them and were busily preparing––for what, Max could not make out.

"If your fireteam has an R1, they go first in line," the Sergeant instructed into the megaphone as he paced through the lines, "If your squad has TWO R1's, the one who has been R1 the longest goes first!"

**[FIRETEAM2-1959.5]** "Move it, pipsqueak," Ravyn said as she elbowed her way to the front of the line.

"Whoever is first in line will be your FIRETEAM LEADER, your *FTL* [FTL is the acronym for Fireteam Leader, pronounced "fit-el"]. Got that, FTLs?"

"YES DRILL SERGEANT!" came the response from the squad leaders over the loudspeakers of their suits.

*Impressive response time,* Max reflected bitterly, remembering how they had all struggled with the call-answer thing during the first weeks of basic training.

The trampling of boots and the clanking of armor stopped fairly abruptly as the last of the laggards reached their lines.

The Sergeant took a moment to glance at his stopwatch.

"Fifty-three seconds," the Sergeant announced, "Not bad, Platoon 41."

Max breathed a little sigh of relief.

The Sergeant marched over to his jeep and, with an energetic leap, mounted its hood, strode onto its roof, and let himself down into the vehicle through the hatch where a machine gun was normally mounted. Once immersed to his shoulders, he kept himself upright and staring at Platoon 41 over the armor of his vehicle. His assistants clambered into the jeep after him and closed its doors. Max heard the lories behind them close their own doors and drive off. The twelve fireteams of Platoon 41 remained still like ancient sentries in the middle of a meadow, awaiting further orders.

The Drill Sergeant handed his megaphone to a subordinate inside the car and was handed a radio which he held up to his mouth.

**[PLATOON41-1959.1]** "Listen up, piss ants," his raspy voice came crackling into Max's helmet, "Welcome to field training. From here on out, you unlucky sons o'bitches are in a war zone. You'll put into practice everything we've taught you. You will be attacked without warning. We will communicate objectives to your squad leaders, and we will be watching how you carry them out as a unit. Once this is over, we will sort the wheat from the chaff, the weak from the strong. Only the strong will be authorized to call themselves SPECIAL FORCES. Do I make myself clear, FTLs?"

**[PLATOON41-1959.1]** "Yes Drill Sergeant!" came the answer over the comms.

**[PLATOON41-1959.1]** "You will follow the chain of command during this assignment. The head of the center fireteam in each squad shall be the LEADER FOR THAT SQUAD. The person behind them will serve as their SECOND AND THE LEADER OF THAT FIRETEAM."

Max felt his eyes go big, *But that means...*

Ravyn glanced back to look at him.

*I'm her Second in Com—–*

An explosion throttled Max's body and tore through his heardrums. Terror ripped at his insides. Instinctively, Max hit the dirt.

"ARE THEY INSANE?" Max shrieked. Later, he would be glad that his suit's radio functioned with a push-to-talk system. The button was on the inside of his suit's glove controls.

**[PLATOON41-1959.1]** "AS I SAID," the Drill Sergeant's voice rasped loudly in Max's ear, "You are in a kill zone. As soldiers of the Karian Republic, you may be attacked at any time, so you might as well get used to it! NOW GET YOURSELVES OUT OF THERE!"

Max's heart raced, his legs and arms shook, his ears and head throbbed. Another shell exploded nearby, violently throwing up dirt and grass in the faces of the recruits of Platoon 41.

Ravyn was nearby. She was on her knees, straining to get up. Max pushed against the ground in an effort to get back on his feet, but his movements were too haphazard and chaotic; he was too uncoordinated.

**[SQUAD1-1959.3]** "Hnnh..." R1 Ravyn heaved, "FTLs... Get your FTs off the ground, NOW!"

She turned around and grabbed Max's shoulderplates, heaving him to his feet. They both shook with the next explosion.

**[SQUAD1-1959.3]** "Hoffman, I swear by the Mother..." Ravyn hissed.

**[SQUAD1-1959.3]** "I'm up, I'm up!" Max hissed back. He turned around. The air felt syrupy, his movements slow and painful.

*In war, everything is simple, but even the simplest thing is difficult,* the instructor had shouted at them on their first day, *Know this about combat before you go out there. You'll know what I mean when you experience it.*

Max tried to help the recruit behind him to his feet. It was all he could do as a crater exploded nearby to stay on his own two feet.

**[FIRETEAM2-1959.5]** "Come on, move, let's go!" Max screamed as he shoved one member of the fireteam away from him and reached for the arm of another.

**[FIRETEAM2-1959.5]** "Go where?!" someone in the fireteam shrieked.

*Where?* Max hadn't thought that far ahead. He looked up from where the chaos was unfolding and saw a line of...

**[SQUAD1-1959.3]** "TAKE YOUR FTs TO THE TREES!" Ravyn screamed over the squad comm channel which only the platoon leaders could hear, "GO! MOVE IT!"

The boy in the suit ran for his life, followed by his peers.

### Part 4

Even as they ran, the shells kept coming, chasing them through the trees until they were well out of sight. When the explosions finally died out, the fireteams of Platoon 41 had been scattered to the four winds. As they got their bearings and took stock of their condition, they realized that not a single one among them had been injured.

**[SQUAD1-1959.3]** "So those shells weren't real?" Max had asked sourly, "We ran for nothing?"

**[SQUAD1-1959.3]** "That's what it looks like," Ravyn had sounded similarly pissed off.

As Max counted his troops, he realized he had four recruits following him instead of three, and they were the wrong four. Ravyn had fled towards the south with Fireteam 1, and in the commotion Max had picked up two recruits who did not belong to his fireteam. One did not even belong to 1st Squad, but was a member of Squad 2.

*What a clusterfuck,* Max had thought bitterly.

Ravyn was given the difficult task of reassembling her squad in good order and to secure a defensible position in the west. She would be given further orders en route. She was warned to be on alert for an enemy which could possibly ambush them and to report any sightings to Platoon 41's command center, which was being operated by their instructors.

Using the maps, compass, and radios provided in their packs and suits, they began to try and coordinate and find each other. It was part of the exercise and Max was painfully aware as he fumbled around with coordinates and landmarks that their radio channels were probably being listened in on by instructors. If they were, he knew they were taking notes.

*Separating wheat from chaff,* the Sergeant had said.

By the time 1st Squad began to regroup, Max felt like he had done alright. While Ravyn focused on receiving orders from the Platoon Leader, Max spread his map out on a rock and, with a few quick, pointed questions, managed to pinpoint where each fireteam was. He suggested a rendezvous point, a small cabin on a hill to the west which fit their marching orders. Ravyn had taken one look at his plan and accepted it without changes.

Max's group got there first. Ravyn and Fireteam 1 were next. Then, finally, R1 Franklin's fireteam arrived.

"Command's briefed me on the situation," Ravyn said in conference with the three fireteam leaders. They had forced their way inside the cabin, checked it for traps, and were now using it as a sort of improvised HQ. The four of them were standing around a table where Max had deployed his map. They had taken off their helmets to talk normally and carried them under their arms. Meanwhile, outside, two fireteams had fanned out into patrols of two while the third squad rested and tended to its needs.

"This is a war game," she said with her exo-arms crossed over her chest, "And our opponent is Platoon 75."

*So we're up against Conrad's platoon?* Max wondered. How would he feel fighting against his friend, even if it's fake? Would they even know it if they ran into each other?

"They were deployed in the lorries at the base of the mountain here..." she pointed at a spot on the opposite side of the map from where they were, and Max placed a dirt-encrusted rock to mark the spot. The space of operations depicted was cut through by a range of short mountains which ran SW to NE.

"That's closer to the peak than we are," Franklin said with his usual cocksure manner, as if he was enlightening everyone by stating the obvious, "I'm guessing they'll take it first, and we'll have to pry it from them."

Franklin's cocksureness and condescension got on Max's nerves. First Recruit von Franklin was the type you dreaded to meet in the Special Forces, an aristocrat on the fast track who would not let anyone forget that he was the son of Brigadier General so-and-so and the cousin of General whomever-the-fuck, and third in line to inherit this-or-that piece of shit estate in Amestris. Max didn't know what he hated more: Franklin's condescension, or the the fact that Ravyn was letting him ramble on, listening intently, giving him what was for her an astonishing level of respect.

"That's to be expected," Ravyn said with a nod, "Platoon 75 has been given a slight terrain advantage in this exercise because they are the defenders––and they are alone. We, on the other hand, are not."

The First Recruit placed two fingers at the easternmost edge of the map, "Platoon 12 is our ally, and they deployed here."

*Kaz's platoon,* Max thought as he marked the location with a rock. It was unlikely that he was going to see her, but he felt better knowing she was going to be on the same side as him.

"So it's two platoons against one?" Rct. Markwardt asked incredulously. Markwardt had come to lead Fireteam 1 in very much the same way Max had come to lead Fireteam 2. He was quieter, younger, less sure of himself, and Max already felt something of a kinship with him.

"That's right," Ravyn said curtly, "Those are hardly ideal odds; doctrine says that we should always attack in threes: if there's one platoon on the enemy side, there should be three on ours before we attack it. If there's one squad, there should be three on our side, etc."

"One to pin them, one to maneuver, and one to act as a reserve," Max suggested quickly, remembering the lesson from the first classes of IBT.

"That's correct," Ravyn nodded sharply, "We only have two platoons, and the Drill Sergeants are deciding our overall strategy. Our role is to implement their strategy at the squad level and below."

The three of them around the table nodded in agreement.

"Each platoon has four squads of twelve men. Most of us are equipped as riflemen, unless any of you discovered you were equipped with anything else?"

The three of them shook their heads.

"All rifles here," Max said.

"Rifles all around," Franklin said.

"Two of my troops dropped their rifles while running," Markwardt suggested tentatively.

Ravyn seemed displeased, "FT3 will act as our reserve, then. If they're committed into combat, they'll have to use their sidearms until we score some kills and are able to pick up some of the opposing side's weapons."

"Got it," Markwardt said uneasily.

Max took note for his own teammate who had lost his rifle.

"And one of my troops was issued one of those big radios," Max said, "The ones you wear on your back."

Ravyn looked to him sharply.

"An ART60?" she asked.

"ATR53S, I think," Max corrected her.

Ravyn nodded, "It'll do."

The woman with pinned-up raven-hair leaned against the sides of the table in the dimly lit room and peered down at the map for a moment. All waited for her to speak.

"We're still in the deployment phase of this battle," Ravyn grimaced as her eyes scanned the topography of the small collection of squares their squad occupied, "Both sides must scramble for the better real-estate, especially the defending side. The more ground we can cover now while it's cheap means fewer casualties later."

*I didn't know Ravyn was so into real estate metaphors,* Max observed with a badly hidden smirk.

"But if we advance too far," Franklin suggested in a soft voice with an affable gesture, "We risk being isolated from the rest of the army, we could be encircled and overwhelmed."

"We'll just have to make sure that never happens," Ravyn said quickly, "This ridge, right here," her finger traced it, "It's the mountain's first ring of natural defenses. It only slopes out here––" she pointed, "––and here," she pointed again, "providing perfect choke points."

"Those are gonna be a bitch to take once the enemy has them..." Max said as he reached behind him to scratch the back of his baldness.

"We can't go around, that would take too long and spread us too thin. But––" Ravyn said, glancing up at him, "What's this?" Her finger landed on a structure above one of the slopes.

"Is that the symbol for a..." Max couldn't be sure, so he leaned forward as close as he could. They all did.

"... a mine shaft?" Markwardt asked, his eyes going big.

Ravyn's expression turned to a satisfied grin.

"I know how we're gonna beat them."

### Part 5

The squad lifted camp as soon as the meeting ended. Packs were mounted on backs, weapons were retrieved, leftovers were thrown away, patrols were recalled, and helmets were donned. A few more precautions were taken in preparation. All of their suits' IFFs (Identify Friend or Foe) broadcast codes were turned off. They instituted radio silence, and instead of transmitting their plan to HQ over the radio where it might be intercepted, Ravyn sent the straggler Max had picked up with a note detailing her intentions and suggesting a plan of action.

Once all of this was done, their forced march up the mountain began. Their exo-suits allowed them to jog despite their heavy packs and the distance they had to cross, so they jogged. It felt like moonwalking, but by that time Max was used to it. They proceeded in three loose groups, spread out as best they could to provide a less vulnerable target if they were ambushed on the way up. Once they hit the slope, they would be totally exposed, with only scarce clumps of trees to hide their approach. Regardless, Ravyn led them up without a moment's hesitation.

*The other side will have realized the same things we have,* Max thought, *If they have leaders as tenacious as Ravyn, they'll be running right at us. If they get to the ridge first and catch us on the slope, we'll be sitting ducks.*

But even as Max kept his eyes peeled for black shapes or muzzle flashes on the mountains above, there was nothing but pleasant green grass and jagged gray rock.

They found the abandoned mining shaft. It was guarded by a handful of decrepit sheds and a small and rusty warehouse. They filed into the shaft, and it was only when the squad––all twelve of them––were safely swallowed that they slowed to a walk. Their legs were burning, their breaths coming out in ragged gasps, they still refused to remove their helmets or to speak a word to each other.

Down they went by the light of electric torches which, in the fumbling darkness, they had mounted on their rifles or simply held aloft. They clomped deeper and deeper into the shaft, taking random forks as they went. Meanwhile, Max took note of their path with a small notebook and pencil he had found in his pack. In order, Markwardt's Fireteam 1 had gone in first. Franklin's Fireteam 3 had gone in second. Max's Fireteam 2 had gone in last, with Max and Ravyn closing the march.

*Take us deep as it will go,* Max thought.

The passageways narrowed progressively, and in places it was labor to get even one exo-suit through.

*Good,* Max thought, *It might slow us down now, but that doesn't matter. If they reach this point, think 'they couldn't possibly have hidden a squad in here,' and move on, that will save our hides.*

Finally, after taking a random turn at the third fork, they reached a dead end. It was time to settle down. The twelve special forces recruits slumped down with sighs of relief, crumpling in their suits into seated positions with their backs to the walls. They took their helmets off, and under the errant light of the torches Max could see that there was not a surface on Ravyn's head which was not drenched with sweat. Her black-purple hair now looked like strands of pitch clinging to her face.

"Won't it get hot as a furnace in here if we stay here for very long?" one of the recruits asked in a whisper after a little while.

"Idiot," Ravyn snapped between measured droughts from her canteen, "Your suit... has ventilation. That shouldn't matter."

"No," Max said, taking paced sips of his own, "He has a point. Ventilation... pushes warm air out of the suit into the environment. It would have to be... very hot for us to start feeling the heat in these suits, so that's not the problem..." He gasped for air, his throat dry and parched.

"It's the heat that could give us... away," Franklin finished his sentence.

Ravyn was silent for a moment. Max stared at her sideways in the semi-darkness quizzically. Her head had lolled all the way back to rest against the cave wall. Her eyes were barely open.

"I didn't think of that," Ravyn finally admitted weakly.

"Neither did we," Max found himself whispering with a shrug.

"With luck, they'll only sweep the mine once, and early in the day," Franklin suggested.

"With luck, they'll half-ass it," Max said wryly.

"We'll just have to tough it out, then," Ravyn said gruffly, "Turn off your suits' ventilations, we'll only use them once we start to need them."

With nothing else to do, they slept in shifts while sentries stood guard. One sentry watched the tunnel and listened for footsteps while the other monitored the temperature of the mine and the radio. Since they were so far underground, they couldn't pick anything up from the outside. However, if soldiers from Platoon 75 entered the mine while communicating on comms, they would be able to pick it up on the large tactical radio.

This was done in total darkness and silence. Except for the rotation of the guard, nobody was was allowed to move. The temperature slowly climbed.

### Part 6

Max and Ravyn were on guard when they heard it––the sound of metal boots clomping through the mine. It was 18:04. They had been in the bowels of the mine for four hours and the heat was becoming unbearable. Max was on the radio, turning the dial as quietly as he could in search of a signal. He did not know what military frequency that fireteam was using, and in these mountains they had the entire spectrum to choose from. He figured that he might stumble upon it if only he kept going.

*The instructor wasn't kidding, this is like trying to find a needle in a haystack,* Max realized.

**[? - 96.5]** "––s'all I'm sayin'––" suddenly pierced through the static in his helmet.

*Gotcha!* Max exclaimed, pouncing on it as quickly as he could. He quickly jerked the dial back to that frequency.

**[? - 96.5]** "––dumb bitch who can't keep her mouth shut. It's like she talks before she thinks."

**[? - 96.5]** "She a good lay, though?"

**[? - 96.5]** "Hell yeah she is."

*Ugh,* Max thought, *I'm gonna have to listen to this now?*

**[? - 96.5]** "Details man, spill!"

Max's lips were a fine white line inside his helmet.

**[? - 96.5]** "Alright, but what is said in the mine shaft stays in the mine shaft..."

What was that phrase Kaz used to describe conversations she didn't want to listen to?

Oh yeah.

*Can we, like, stop this conversation right now? Honestly, dying sounds less painful than listening to you guys measure dicks.*

Max finally understood something of what she meant.

The opposing fireteam came excruciatingly close to where the squad was hiding. Max could see the glare from the torches as they swept over them. Max was sure they had seen him, and was ready to grab his rifle and fight.

**[? - 96.5]** "Welp. Guess this is just another dead end."

Max's eyes went big, and he held his breath.

**[? - 96.5]** "Yeah, it's getting stuffy in here and I wanna eat."

**[? - 96.5]** "You can still work up an appetite for spam?"

**[? - 96.5]** "After we skipped breakfast AND lunch, YEAH. I'd eat anything right about now."

The torchlight on the walls shrank away faded with the sound of their echoing footsteps.

**[? - 96.5]** "A few more days buddy, and your intestines will be just as dead as the rest of ours, trust me."

**[? - 96.5]** "Bitch, you've been here just as long as I have."

**[? - 96.5]** "I just wanna sleep..."

**[? - 96.5]** "WE KNOW," three of them said in unison.

Their rambling conversation was cut off abruptly as they left the mine. 1st Squad breathed a collective sigh of relief.

Max waited twenty minutes more before he carefully took off his helmet.

"Did you hear anything?" Ravyn asked him in a raspy whisper.

*Can I ever unhear? I now know far too much about the kinks of some random dude I haven't ever met. Those braincells could have been used to do something useful! Ugh, what if I run into him back at the camp? That would be so weird...*

"Nothing useful, sir," he muttered.

Ravyn nodded sharply, "Alright," she said, "Turn your ventilations back on."

"Oh thank the mother!" one recruit whispered.

"Quiet!" Ravyn hissed, "And keep radio silence."

They waited another five and a half hours in total darkness and total silence. Max napped through some of it, but there came a time when his body no longer allowed him to sleep. With nothing to do to distract him from the hunger gnawing at his stomach––barely able to even move, he watched the little ":" flash on and off on the little digital clock display on his visor. Morbidly curious, he guessed that the colon flashed every second or so. Then, he got the urge to test his theory out of sheer boredom. He tried counting the ticks, only to lose track somewhere past forty.

19:25

*Just five more minutes and it will be four hours and thirty minutes before we leave this mine...*

22:57

*Just three more minutes and it will be one hour.*

23:00

*Just one hour.*

In primary school, Max had been the little kid in the back who was constantly staring at the clock and counting the minutes until the next period, the next recess, the end of the day. It was a habit he had picked back up during Basic Training when he had been assigned to watch the barracks for twenty-four hours. The R1's were allowed to sleep during their watches. Max wasn't.

Finally, it was 23:41 and Ravyn hadn't moved.

*What is she waiting for?!* Max fumed irritably.

Then it occurred to him that she might be asleep behind her visor.

*That little hypocrite!* He placed a hand on her shoulder and gave her an ungentle shove. Within thirty seconds, she was up and the whole squad was marching single-file, Ravyn first, Max second, followed by the three fireteams. When they reached the mouth of the cave, Max barely noticed it. The sky was overcast, it was black as pitch outside.

*Now we wait,* Max thought, turning the knob on the radio controls he had velcroed to his gauntlet. He searched for the right channel and then got it. It was 23:53. They waited, and Max strained to listen over the static and background noise. He turned the frequency all the way up in his headset until the static sounded like roaring waves on some waterfront far away.

At 23:54, Max heard a single, short, beep. One byte of information. He waited for a minute. At exactly 23:55, there was another beep.

That removed all doubts from Max's mind. He had really heard it. It was not an artifact, though it was disguised to sound like one to the person who was not listening for it. Max used his radio to send out a single pulse in reply.

Then, in quick succession, at irregular intervals...

**[? - 485.1]** Beep... Beep... Beep-beep...

Max's eyes went big. *That's four squads signaling that they're in position, five if you count our group.*

Butterflies danced in Max's stomach, and he suddenly realized he had nerves. They were strained almost to breaking by the deafening silence of the radio and the night around him.

At exactly 23:56, there was another beep, like a period at the end of a sentence, braces at the end of a sequence of computer code.

*That was someone at platoon command,* Max realized with wonder, experiencing for the first time what it meant to have an army at his back. The feeling of being a crucial part of something momentous, of something much larger than yourself, was coded into those five dots.

Ravyn was looking at him, and Max gave her the affirmative signal.

## Day 4

### Part 1

**[DYINGMOON - 485.1]** "This is Widow 1 to all units," came the voice of a male operator, "Operation Dying Moon is a go. Repeat, Dying Moon is a go. Over."

**[SQUAD1-1959.3]** "That's the signal!" Max exclaimed.

Ravyn bolted into the night, rifle raised. The rest followed.

*How long will it take for the unit defending the slope to realize it's under attack?* Max wondered.

As if in answer to his question, there came three quick pops which rolled over the mountains before dying away. Those were the first shots of the battle for the slope.

**[DYINGMOON - 485.1]** "This is Bruiser 1, we've been spotted, on the north side, finding cover. Over."

1st Squad advanced in the direction of the fighting. The opposing units had chosen to camp closer to the slope than to the mine, likely so they would be able to respond quickly should an attack like this occur. As they passed by the abandoned sheds and the warehouse, they met no resistance, though they cleared them quickly just to make sure.

The few scattered shots soon turned into a torrent of gunfire, though in the confused comm chatter Max could not tell who really had the upper hand.

**[DYINGMOON - 485.1]** "This is Knight 2, two of our FTs are pinned in the center. They have LOS on us, attempting to dislodge, but our suppressive fire is ineffective. Over."

**[DYINGMOON - 485.1]** "This is Maple 2, they've spotted us too. They're concentrating fire on us on the south side. Our return fire is bad. Bad angle. Over."

As they descended the mountain path, Max got a quick panoramic view of the slope from above. He saw muzzle flashes where he figured the attacking squads were. In the darkness, he could barely see the little black shapes. They were dispersed, scrambling like ants on a hill for cover and advantage. While some fireteams fired, the others maneuvered for more and better ground.

Then, looking further up, Max saw the defenders, their opponents. There were only three fireteams manning the pass, judging by the muzzle flashes, though three fireteams could hold off twenty at that angle if they had enough ammo. They were firing from kneeling positions down on the defenders from overlooking ridges.

*At least it's dark. We can't see shit, but neither can they.*

Then suddenly, out of nowhere, fire streaked across the sky. It burned so brightly it hurt to look at it. Max was blinded by the sight.

**[DYINGMOON - 485.1]** "A flare!"

**[DYINGMOON - 485.1]** "This is Bruiser 2, they've deployed a flare right above our position. We can't see them, but they can see us. We're sitting ducks out here! Requesting orders, over."

**[DYINGMOON - 485.1]** "Bruiser, this is Widow 3. Stay put and bunker down. Draw their fire, but take no unnecessary risks. That goes for all units on the slope. Halt your advances and find cover."

**[DYINGMOON - 485.1]** "Bruiser wilco."

**[DYINGMOON - 485.1]** "Maple wilco."

**[DYINGMOON - 485.1]** "Knight wilco."

**[DYINGMOON - 485.1]** "This is Widow 3 calling Ghost, what's your status? Over."

**[DYINGMOON - 485.1]** "This is Ghost 2, inbound," Max replied as vaguely as he could, hoping that command would get his meaning, "We see three FTs guarding the objective, no more. Over."

The army taught its soldiers to always assume that the enemy is monitoring comms traffic, and so the use of call signs and vague references is necessary.

Shielding their eyes, 1st Squad plunged back into the narrow paths of the mountain until, wheeling a corner, they came face-to-face with an opposing sentry guarding a narrow passage. He raised his gun, but Ravyn was faster. In an instant, her hands were free, her gun dangled by its strap at her side, and her blade was out of its sheath.

It was over before Max could blink. The sentry had not even been able to switch his safety off before Ravyn had scored the hit that got him. His suit crumpled to the ground as it deactivated.

**[SQUAD1-1959.3]** "Holy shit," Max swore involuntarily.

**[SQUAD1-1959.3]** "Think fast, or you're dead," Ravyn grunted, as she sheathed her blade and went for her gun, "That's how it works. I think I got to him before he alerted the others. Let's go."

Their column plunged into the passage.

**[DYINGMOON - 485.1]** "This is Widow 3, all units currently engaged give me a report, over."

**[DYINGMOON - 485.1]** "This is Bruiser 2, still pinned, we've lost seven, over."

**[DYINGMOON - 485.1]** "This is Knight 2, still pinned, we've lost four. We can't hold out much longer like this. Over."

**[DYINGMOON - 485.1]** "This is Maple 2, we're pinned, five lost."

**[DYINGMOON - 485.1]** "Damn it! Ghost, where are you? Over."

**[DYINGMOON - 485.1]** "This is Ghost 1. On target, moving in for the kill," Ravyn said.

1st Squad burst into the open, rifles blazing.

### Part 2

In its opening seconds, the struggle for the overlook was more an execution than a battle. The three fireteams of 1st Squad fanned out as quickly as they could. With a few quick motions of her arm, Ravyn directed her teams. Markwardt's group was instructed to maneuver north while Ravyn and Franklin's groups pinned the first fireteam they encountered in an enfilade of fire. Caught with their backs to the cliff and with no cover to speak of, the four defenders were only able to ensure that their suits did not fall when they were deactivated by throwing themselves to the ground.

**[DYINGMOON - 485.1]** "This is Bruiser 2, the fire from above's stopped."

**[DYINGMOON - 485.1]** "This is Widow 3, you are authorized to proceed to the objective. Repeat, all units proceed to the objective."

Ravyn led the two teams north after Markwardt's group. Max followed them in cover. His role in this battle was to keep track of comm traffic on the operations channel and keep the operational HQ up to date on what was happening with his unit.

**[DYINGMOON - 485.1]** "Widow 3, this is Ghost 2," Max said into the radio, "We have engaged the enemy and opened the pass. We have downed one of their FTs. Repeat, one FT down. Two more on the objective. Over."

*Three fireteams makes only one squad,* Max thought, *They're supposed to have four squads total. Where are the other three squads?*

**[SQUAD1-1959.3]** "T3, give me a report," Ravyn demanded.

**[SQUAD1-1959.3]** "We're pinned down here," Markwardt replied, panic creeping into his voice, "The two teams are on us, they're trying to flank!"

**[SQUAD1-1959.3]** "We'll be there in a minute, hold on," Ravyn said.

**[DYINGMOON - 485.1]** "This is Bruiser 2, we've just lost Bruiser 1! It was a––"

There was silence on the comm.

**[DYINGMOON - 485.1]** "Bruiser," Widow 3 said, "Bruiser 1 or 2, do you copy? Over."

**[DYINGMOON - 485.1]** "This is Bruiser 6, Bruisers 1 and 2 are down. We're in cover, under fire. There's only three of us left! Over."

**[DYINGMOON - 485.1]** "Did the fire come from the two FTs engaged on the objective?" Widow 3 asked, "Over."

**[DYINGMOON - 485.1]** "Negative, negative, it's another squad, they're coming in on the slope from the north! Over."

*From the north? We're being flanked?*

**[DYINGMOON - 485.1]** "This is Knight 2, our teams are in cover. We've lost two more. Their fire is unusually accurate at this range. The flare is still up, they can see us but we cannot see them. Over."

**[DYINGMOON - 485.1]** "This is Widow 3. All teams be advised we have made contact with a second enemy squad reported north of the objective. They are on the slope. Repeat, they are coming at us from the slope. Flash, do you copy?"

**[DYINGMOON - 485.1]** "This is Flash 1, copy."

*Wait, is that Kaz?* Max couldn't help but smile when he recognized her voice, *Hold on––Ghost, Maple, Bruiser, and Knight. That makes four squads, or the whole of Platoon 41. Did Platoon 12 lend us Kaz's squad to act as a reserve unit?*

Suddenly, he understood. He was privy to only part of the picture, but the Widow operators were managing the whole theater.

*It's only a guess, but the other three squads of Platoon 12 were probably deployed attacking the second slope to the south, keeping two defending squads occupied while we break through here. Holy shit, it's a plan that may work.*

**[DYINGMOON - 485.1]** "Flash 1, range north. Keep to the trees until you are past the enemy's position. Flank them from the east."

**[DYINGMOON - 485.1]** "Roger Widow 3, Flash is moving," Kaz replied, "Over."

**[DYINGMOON - 485.1]** "Widow 3 to Ghost."

**[DYINGMOON - 485.1]** "This is Ghost 2," Max said hurriedly into the receiver, "I read you Widow 3."

**[DYINGMOON - 485.1]** "Give me a status report."

**[DYINGMOON - 485.1]** "Wilco," Max said.

Max looked up from where he knelt in cover to see the state of the battle for the overlook. The three fireteams of 1st Squad were attempting to corner the two defending teams, though these were engaged in a fighting retreat.

**[SQUAD1-1959.3]** "HEY BOSS, Command wants a status report!" he shouted over the 1st Squad frequency.

**[SQUAD1-1959.3]** "WE'RE BUSY!" Ravyn shouted back.

**[SQUAD1-1959.3]** "How many have we lost?" Max shouted hoarsely over the din.

**[SQUAD1-1959.3]** "I lost two," Markwardt said.

**[SQUAD1-1959.3]** "One over here," Franklin reported.

**[SQUAD1-1959.3]** "No loss," Ravyn grunted.

**[SQUAD1-1959.3]** "And how many have they lost?!" Max shouted.

**[SQUAD1-1959.3]** "FIVE!" Ravyn shouted, "NOW PISS OFF!"

Max nodded, composed his thoughts, then pressed the receiver.

**[DYINGMOON - 485.1]** "Widow 3, this is Ghost 2. We're engaged with two FTs on the overlook. They've lost five. We lost three. Over."

### Part 3

By the time the sun rose in the east, spreading its rays over the landscape, it was over. From the firing of the first shot to the taking of the second pass, the battle had lasted six interminable hours. Every part of Max's body felt heavy, ached, and chafed. He just wanted to go to sleep like Franklin and the others, but Ravyn was still standing, watching the sunrise with her helmet off, so he figured he should stand too.

"Are these things usually this quick?" Max asked, joining her with his helmet under his arm.

Ravyn took a little breath.

"I have no idea," she said, "They do something different every time so it's not something you can study up on beforehand."

"Ah," Max said, gazing tiredly at the blur of orange color at the edge of the sky without really seeing it.

"You know, Metal Boy," Ravyn said, giving him a sideways glance, "You're a fuckin' pain in the ass––"

"Well thanks," Max snapped coldly, *The feeling's mutual.*

"Let me finish––" she said sternly, "––a pain in the ass in the barracks, but you're not bad out here. You understand tactics and strategy. You get it," she snapped her fingers a few times, as if impatient, "––faster than most people. You're on task. You're not a bad swordsman either."

Max stared at her in disbelief for a solid second. Was he hallucinating? Was he dreaming?

Ravyn ignored his expression.

"Where'd you learn those skills, Metal?" she asked.

Max looked away from her towards the edge of the sky, gears slowly turning in his brain. When they finally came, his words felt like cotton in his mouth.

"Back when I didn't have arms, there wasn't much I could do by myself except spend time in the virtual world," he said, not quite believing he was explaining this to his ach-rival while being so sleep-deprived he could think clearly, "I used to raid hardcore in VR MMO's. Coordination, communication, team play... learning the rules, the weapons, the abilities, the calls, the encounters––after I did it for a long time, it just started coming naturally to me."

Ravyn gave a smirk, but nothing more, "And the swordplay?"

"That? You have no idea how much knowing how to *actually* wield a sword helps when you fight against guys whose cumulative knowledge of swordplay amounts to 'this is cool as fuck' and 'stick them with the pointy end'. I was a god in that world. All I did was learn the basics of fencing. The instructors here taught me the rest."

Ravyn laughed, "You know, Metal, if you had told me that you were one of those video game nerds two days ago, I would have never let you live it down. But I can't argue with the results, however you arrived at them."

Max looked down, "Thanks..." he said tentatively, trying to figure out if that was actually a compliment. He decided it was.

Then he looked back to her, "How did you learn to fight like you do? You're what––twenty?"

"Seventeen, actually," she corrected him.

"SEVENTE––" Max blurted out before restraining himself, "You devise a strategy like that just by looking at a map; you lead a squad like a pro; you bum rush some guy who has a gun with a sword and get out without a scratch; you get a *42* in blade training... How do you do all that at seventeen?"

Max saw Ravyn smile for the first time. Like all things Ravyn, it had a hard edge, but it was a smile nonetheless.

"It's in my blood," she said, "I'm part Amestrian."

*She's an aristocrat?!* Max's eyes widened with surprise, and he looked up at her. He didn't see it, any of the curated softness, grace, and delicacy that a highborn lady is supposed to have. There was only hardness and hardship there.

"I know you Karians don't have a high opinion of Amestrians, but there are many families who continue to serve this country dutifully, despite the Revolution and what your government might say publicly. My family is among them. We swore an oath to Rolf the Fifth to defend his country and his people."

As Max looked on disbelievingly, he saw tears appear in the raven-haired girl's eyes.

"And Mother willing," she said, clenching a fist, "Even though the monarchy is gone, we will uphold that oath until the Final Sacrament, or until there are none of us left."

"So..." Max said uncomfortably, "You've been training to join the military since you were a child?"

"Yes."

"Your whole life has been an extended boot camp."

"More or less."

"That... makes a whole lot more sense."

### Part 4

Mercifully, most of Platoon 41 was able to sleep as soon as the company returned to Ragow. The recruits were bundled out of the lorries, stripped of their power armor, and driven headlong into the communal shower. There, a Sergeant stood beside the rushing water and naked chattering bodies, counting down the seconds a recruit had to wash themselves in full view of everyone else.

After that, most collapsed in their bunks for a timed nap. Instruction would happen later that night––until 11:00 pm they were told––to compensate.

But, someone had to guard the barracks while everyone slept. That someone was Max. Because of course it was. Max wasn't even mad. he was far past the point of being mad, so dead inside from lack of sleep that he took the assignment without protest. To keep himself awake, he swept the barracks floor in each of its wings, slowly shambling from room to room until he ran into Ravyn.

She wasn't asleep either, though as Max saluted he realized she had just come from there; and he realized what she was wearing: Black jacket, black tie, black beret slanted slightly on one side, white shirt, white gloves. Her hair was pinned up, and still damp. Her black gaze was heavy. She was looking for him, walking up with the same brisk and forceful pace she would have used if she had been wearing fatigues and combat boots. Instead, she was wearing a skirt and small, angular shoes that clicked as she walked.

"Metal," she greeted coldly, though with an edge of urgency, "Put your blacks on, the Brigadier General wants to see us. I'll wake someone up to take your shift."

"Yes sir. Right away sir," Max said breathlessly.

Having no energy left to question it, Max stowed away his broom immediately and sped-walked to his bunk, under which he kept his duffel bag. He reappeared a few minutes later in the staff lounge, his steps clicking hesitantly as he walked. Ravyn's eyes widened with disbelief.

"Sweet Mother of... Have you ever even worn that thing?" she asked sharply.

Max's lips formed a thin white line.

"... Nevermind," she said, her nose wrinkling with frustration; she advanced brusquely, "Just give that here."

Before Max could say anything, her hands were at his neck undoing his tie with precision. With no pretense of being gentle, she yanked it out of his collar.

She gave herself space to work with. Max stumbled backwards as if he had been struck, his eyes and mouth wide open. If Ravyn noticed, she pretended not to.

*I'm used to being dressed down,* Max thought, horrified, *but not like this.*

Ravyn looped the tie around her neck and tied it with three quick motions before pulling sharply down, revealing the perfect, finished knot, the one Max saw in all the movies.

"Oh," Max gulped, "So that's how you––"

"Yes," Ravyn said curtly, "Pull up your collar like this," she mimed with her hands, "Yeah, like that. All the way. 'kay."

She draped the black noose over Max's head, brought it down around his neck, and tightened it until he thought he wouldn't be able to breathe. He felt like he was being hanged.

"At least it's fitted," she muttered under her breath. Her eyes glanced about his uniform as her thumbs and hands looped around his collar. She folded it down properly, tucking it into the fold of his jacket. Apparently, that wasn't enough, because she started patting down his shoulders, tugging out the creases.

"Hoffman," she said with an exasperated sigh, "Why did you take a tie-on tie if you don't know how to tie it? You should have gone with the clip-on."

Max flushed.

"I uh––I heard the clip-on was for pussies," he said uncomfortably.

She looked at him quizzically.

"Then *learn to tie it,*" she said, placing both her fists on her hips, "How you look *matters,* especially around the higher-ups."

"Yes m'a––"

She grabbed him by the shoulders and planted him in front of the wall mirror.

"Stand up straight soldier. No, not like that. You look like you have a rod up your ass. Shoulders back. Make it look natural. There. Better. Isn't that better?"

Max looked himself closely in the mirror for the first time in... Well, since he could remember. He used to avoid mirrors. They had tended to be too honest in their depiction of reality. But as he stood there, he barely recognized the young man in the mirror. He had arms instead of empty sleeves or even less sightly stumps. His chest was bigger than he remembered, his whole form was dense and compact––not gangly and ape-like. He seemed taller than he remembered––taller than he felt.

His hair was cut short, trimmed into a smart, disciplined mat of black hair. The beret rested sharply on one side, but it was the suit that made all the difference.

*Anybody looks good in a suit,* Kaz had said once, though at the time he hadn't believed her.

He had tried suits on before, and had looked like a clown. He had worn them anyway––to school dances, to weddings, to that one party he had been invited to––and played it off for laughs.

But this, this actually made him look good. He looked just as good as Ravyn did in her uniform. He looked like a soldier.

"Yeah..." he said quietly, his eyes wide.

"Do you have gloves?" Ravyn asked.

Max patted himself down with consternation, but Ravyn stopped him. She was handing him a second pair of white gloves which she had pulled out from somewhere.

"These are my spares," she said sharply, "Give them back when we're done."

"Right," Max said as he slipped the gloves on. With that, the last bit of freakshow disappeared from the mirror. Ravyn stepped away from him.

"Attention, soldier!" she demanded in her Drill Sergeant's voice.

Max snapped into his best salute. It was a reflex by now. He very nearly cried tears of joy when he saw his reflection.

### Part 5

It was a long march to the Ragow Command Center. Ravyn walked so briskly that Max had to break into a jog every few seconds to keep up.

"So it's the Brigadier General?" Max asked uneasily.

"Yeah," Ravyn replied.

"Do you know what it's about?"

"I'm trying not to think about it," Ravyn intoned sourly, "When you're called in to see the C.O., it could either be very, very good, or very, very bad. There's usually no inbetweens, and you won't know till you're there."

"Ah," Max said, "What if he just wants his coffee?"

"Are you the Personal Assistant to the Brigadier General?" Ravyn asked sharply.

"No but––" *it was just a joke*.

"Then it's not because he wants coffee."

"Alright, alright," Max groaned, "So this is basically the equivalent of being called in to see the principal?"

"Pretty much."

They scanned their badges at the guard post in front of the Command Center. After a brief moment, the card reader flashed green and the private on duty nodded to them. He leaned out of the booth and gestured towards the building.

"General Heidrich's office is on the third floor. Take one of the elevators up and you'll come to an office floor. Take a right and it should be right there."

Ravyn snapped into a salute, and Max imitated her.

"Thank you, Private," she said sternly.

The young Private smiled in a way that told Max that it was not every day that someone saluted for him.

"Don't mention it."

When they stepped out onto the third floor, they stood in front of the closing elevator for a moment to get their bearings. They were in a large rectangular office space with a drab gray carpet. Soldiers, the vast majority of them recruits in blacks, sat behind computers and on phones inside cubicles. It took a moment, but someone noticed them.

"Hey, it's her!" Max heard someone exclaim in an excited whisper in the back of the room.

"Who?"

"Ghost, the girl who led the 1st Squad during the training exercise."

"Oh! Sorry, can I call you back?––Yeah, thanks."

Before either Ravyn or Max understood what was happening, someone started clapping. Pretty soon, the whole room was on their feet, sharing in the excitement of the moment. Most of them probably did not understand what was so important about the raven-haired girl and her shorter counterpart, but in a place like this, anything to break up the monotony of the day was welcome. They gave her a hero's welcome.

Ravyn seemed petrified, her eyes wide, like she didn't know what to do or feel. After a moment of stiff awkwardness, she snapped into a salute, her heels clicking. The recruits in the room saluted back at their desks. Then, Ravyn pivoted on one heel and started walking towards where they were supposed to go.

*Man,* Max thought, cringing, *That was painful to watch.*

They had barely gone a few steps when they were met by a smaller group of recruits, the ones who had spotted them and started to clap. There were maybe five of them, a full unit, wearing small pins that said, "LOGISTICS," "PLANNING," "COMMUNICATIONS," and "INTELLIGENCE." They wanted to talk, so Ravyn stopped.

"Hey! You're First Recruit Yuna Ravyn, right?" the young man in the lead asked, "I'm First Recruit Rein Raskopf, these are Rcts. Senft, Tchida, Weimann, and Martz. We were the HQ team assigned to Platoons 12 and 41 during the exercise."

Recognition finally touched Ravyn's face and she seemed to relax a little.

"Oh really?" she said, giving a little laugh, "I did wonder what you would think of having one of your squads run off like that. It must've been––"

"It was really cool!" Martz said, "Real special forces shit."

"Obviously," Weinmann cut in, "The Sergeant wasn't happy when 1st Squad ghosted without leaving a trace––"

"––and you should have seen his face when your little notebook arrived––" Martz continued.

"––hand delivered, no less––" Raskopf pointed out.

"––containing the battle plan, communications protocols, time of attack––" Weinmann continued.

"You know, everything *we're supposed to do*," Senft commented with a wry smile, hanging on a cubicle at the periphery of the conversation.

"Yeah, Sarge wasn't exactly happy about that either," Raskopf chuckled.

"––all we had to do," Weinmann continued, "Was fill in the blanks, devise a plan for the two slopes which would work with your plan, deceive the enemy by convincing them we would attack the next morning, and BAM!" he brought his fist crashing down onto his palm.

"And there you have it folks," Raskopf did his best imitation of an announcer's voice, "The perfect recipe for quick victory and perfect marks."

"Oh?" Ravyn cut in, "Have you seen your marks for the field exercise yet?"

"No," Raskopf shrugged, "But we're pretty confident."

"I was Widow 3," Tchida offered. She hadn't spoken yet, but Max recognized her voice instantly. She seemed a bit more shy in person than she had sounded over the radio.

"Oh yeah?" Max said excitedly, "I was Ghost 2!"

Tchida smiled at him in recognition.

Raskopf flashed him a smile and a thumbs-up, "Smooth calls, man. I was Widow 1."

"Say," Martz asked, "How was it being down in that mine for six hours?"

"Nine, actually..." Ravyn finally sounded as tired as Max felt.

"NINE?" the recruits exclaimed, laughing at the absurdity of what for Max and Ravyn had been a typical experience.

"Holy Mother Above," Raskopf swore in surprise.

"Yeah," Max laughed with them, "Hell, it was hell. That's what it was. We couldn't move, speak, or see anything for nine hours. We couldn't use the radio because that might be picked up, and taking a piss or a shit was a complicated and dangerous affair," he grimaced when he realized he might have gone too far.

"Mother," Tchida said, signing herself.

"So you're all on the supply and logistics track?" Ravyn asked.

"Yeah!" Raskofp said, crossing his arms, "A lot of us are, anyway, we've got a mix. Hey, it's not as exciting as what you do, but it pays well and you can still make a career out of––"

"Holy shit, is that a Cross of Blood?" Weinmann blurted out.

He was looking at one of the colored ribbons on the left side of Ravyn's chest, just over her heart. Max had seen them earlier while they were standing side-by-side in the mirror. They were little rectangles with colored patterns on them, usually awarded for achievements while in the line of duty. As a recruit, Max had none. Ravyn had two, stacked vertically one over the other: (1) the first depicted a red cross with a black outline on a white background, (2) while the second depicted a black raven on a white background flanked by purple bars. Max had not known what either meant.

Ravyn seemed to go cold. She made eye contact with Rct. Weinmann. He flinched.

Max felt the whole dynamic in the room change, like someone had sucked all of the air. The five recruits were staring at her now. None of them seemed to know how to react.

"Oh––" Raskofp finally stammered; his face was flush, he looked like he wanted to vanish on the spot, "I'm sorry. We didn't know."

"It's fine," Ravyn snapped, "Could you direct us to the Brigadier General's office?"

"Yes m'am," Raskofp said quickly, "It's just down that way," he gestured with an arm.

Ravyn nodded plunged past them without another word. The recruits flattened themselves against the wall to clear her path. Max followed, and as he glanced back at the four recruits, he realized they were all still staring.

"I should have seen that coming," Raskofp was saying, holding the bridge of his nose, "I'm sorry guys, it's my fault."

"Shhhh! She can still hear you."

Max jogged to catch up with Ravyn.

Should he tempt fate?

Fuck it, he was in too deep to pull out now.

"What's a Cross of Blood?" he asked in a low voice.

Ravyn shot a sideways glance at him.

"My oath," she said through gritted teeth.

*What does that mean?* Max wondered, but he didn't press it.

"And what about those guys?" he asked instead, *Why did they react like that?*

"They don't concern me," Ravyn muttered as they reached the front desk to the office of the Brigadier General where a secretary was working. Ravyn paused in the doorway to look Max full in the face.

"Wolves don't concern themselves with the opinions of sheep."

### Part 6

"Metal."

Max felt a sharp pain in his ribcage. He jerked awake.

Apparently, he had fallen asleep in one of the chairs outside of the Brigadier General's office. Ravyn was already standing in the middle of the room, looking back at him. They made eye contact. Her black irises were as inscrutable as ever.

Max sprang to his feet, blinked many times, and nodded.

Then, the Personal Assistant to the Brigadier General opened the door.

"Sir, the I have the two recruits from Training Platoon 41 here to see you."

"Come in," came General Heidrich's's voice from within.

Ravyn glanced into the office, then seemed to remember something.

"What's your first name?" she asked in a whisper.

"Max," he whispered back, his heart jumping in his chest.

"Short for Maximilian?" she asked.

"Yeah?" he said back uneasily, *Why...?*

Ravyn straightened herself and then walked into the General's office, soles clicking. Max fell in behind her. They both planted themselves firmly in the middle of the room and snapped into their salutes.

"First Recruit Yuna Ravyn and Recruit Maximilian Hoffman, First Squad, Forty-First Platoon reporting as requested, sir!" Ravyn announced in her commander's voice.

*Oh, that's why,* Max almost grimaced.

"Rest," he ordered, "Thank you for coming," the General said from behind his desk, clasping his thick-ringed fingers in front of him.

Brigadier General Heidrich was a man in his forties, big, with a beard and a full head of hair. He was in full dress uniform with one gold star on his epaulettes and sleeves to indicate his rank. His many service ribbons, displayed in a rectangle on the left side of his jacket, added a brilliant dash of color to the uniform. His features were hard, with cheeks that resembled the reinforced armored plates of a tank.

Given permission to relax, both Ravyn and Max fell into parade rest, spreading their feet a shoulder's-width apart, joining their hands behind their backs, and looking straight ahead. They waited silently while they were being inspected.

After a moment, the General laughed out loud, flashing a perfect row of white teeth which looked like a pillbox at the bottom of a grassy knoll.

"You two gave my Sergeants a bit of a scare there. I'm told that you ghosted your squad, ignored orders, sent a hand-delivered note to the Platoon Commander instructing him on how to do his job, snuck behind enemy lines, waited for the rest of your platoon to act as bait, ambushed the enemy from behind, and shattered their position."

The General seemed to take a special delight in listing their accomplishments as if they were gross instances of misconduct. Max got a very bad feeling.

"Is this an accurate rendition of events, First Recruit Ravyn?" he asked, gesturing in her direction and leaning back in his chair.

"Yes sir," Ravyn said, "All of that is accurate."

"And you take full responsibility?"

"For my actions? Yes sir, always."

"And you realize," here the perfect row of teeth made an appearance again, "That if this were the Army, I should be required to court martial you as an insubordinate?"

A deep pit suddenly formed in Max's stomach. Panicking, he stole a glance at Ravyn's face. To his disbelief, he found that she was *smirking*.

"Yes sir," Ravyn said with the same playful edge in her voice, "But this isn't the Army, is it sir?"

The General threw back his head and laughed, "No, of course it's not."

He ponderously rose from his desk, joined his hands behind his back, paced over to the window, and looked out. Max imagined that he could see a lot of Ragow from that spot, the many barracks, courtyards, training ranges, and warehouses that were necessary to run an operation of this size.

"First Recruit Ravyn, I assume you know this," the General continued, "Who is Chief of the Army Staff?"

Ravyn didn't even hesitate, "General Gerhold Otto, sir."

"And what is his background?"

"Special Forces, sir."

"Good," Heidrich said, "Who commands the 1st Army on the border with the Ascendancy?"

"Lieutenant General Johann Ravyn, sir."

"Your father, yes?"

"Yes sir."

"His background?"

"Special Forces."

"Who is head of the Army Training and Doctrine Command?"

"General Adolf Enns. Also Special Forces, in case you were wondering, sir."

Max was so lost.

General Heidrich laughed. Crossing his arms, he strolled to the center of the room, faced them, and leaned back against the front of his desk.

"Most Amestrians forget that one, I'm glad you got it. But then again, I'd expect nothing less from someone who wears the Cross of Blood."

"Thank you sir," Ravyn said.

Then he abruptly changed subject.

"The Army trains sheep, would you disagree?" he asked.

"No sir, I would not disagree," Ravyn replied.

"From the top officers to the lowest private, Army men are taught to follow orders, to never ask questions, to execute everything that has been asked of them to the letter. They do not innovate, they do not understand the bigger picture, they do not think for themselves––obedience is what is needed of a modern army when it reaches the scale of quadrillions of conscripts."

General Heidrich pushed himself off the desk and planted himself firmly in front of Ravyn. He towered over her.

"The Army trains sheep. Here at Special Forces, we train wolves and sheepdogs. We train you to be independent, intelligent, to seize the initiative and not wait for someone to tell you to do it. That is why we reach the highest echelons of military service, and why one day you will too. Let's speed that along a little, shall we?"

The General reached into the inside of his jacket and pulled something out. Out of the corner of his eye, he could not see what it was.

"First Recruit Yuna Ravyn," the General's tone hardened, "For actions and conduct going above and beyond the instructions and expectations of your instructors during field training exercises, I am awarding you with the Basic Training Honors Medal and thirty extra points on your MCT."

He pinned something to Ravyn's chest. Max felt his cheeks burn and eyes glisten as he stood by and watched her be recognized.

Ravyn snapped into a salute.

"Thank you, sir."

The General nodded, "You have a promising career ahead of you. At rest."

Then, he ponderously stepped in front of Max and peered down at him. It was only then that Max realized how tall the General was.

"So, what's the story with this one?" the General asked.

"Recruit Hoffman was my second during the training exercise, sir."

"Did you pick him?"

"No sir, he was assigned to me by chance."

"Would you have picked him if he had not been assigned to you?" the General asked pointedly.

Max held his breath.

"No sir," Ravyn admitted. She was still looking at the wall.

Max felt the words like a gut-punch.

*Yeah, of course not, I thought as much. I'm fucking useless to you, aren't I?*

"If you had to do it again, would you pick him to be your second now?"

Max braced himself.

"Yes sir, I would."

It took him a moment to hear the words. When he heard them, he could not believe them. Relief swept through his stomach. He was glad the General's attention was focused on Ravyn.

"Why?" the General demanded.

"Because Hoffman is a sheepdog, sir," she said, "When in a battle situation, he does not need to be told what to do. He figures it out, guesses my intentions––guesses *right*––and takes what he believes to be the most proactive and useful action in response to the situation. He can keep up with me in the field, which is more than I can say for most recruits."

The General nodded sharply, "And did you learn something from this?"

"Yes sir," Ravyn said.

"What did you learn?"

Ravyn's mouth opened, but no words came out. They were stuck in her throat, or ill-formed. It sounded a little bit like she was choking. She closed her mouth again and bowed her head, as if in shame.

"I see," the General said, turning to Max and extending his hand, "Recruit Hoffman, according to your superior officer, you seem to deserve this."

He opened his palm, revealing a small white ribbon depicting a black planet with a sword run vertically through it flanked by black and green bars.

Basic Training Honors Medal
"For actions and conduct going above and beyond the instructions and expectations of your instructors during field training exercises, I am awarding you with the Basic Training Honors Medal and thirty points on your MCT."

General Heidrich pinned the ribbon to Max's chest, which despite everything was brimming with joy.

## Day 5

### Part 1

Max was still riding high the following night when he returned to the Platoon 41 barracks, intending to turn in early. He wanted to catch up on sleep to be in good shape for the semifinals the following morning. As he turned down the hallway, he spotted a familiar shape leaning against the wall, waiting for him. Max could not have been happier to see it.

"Hey Conrad!" Max exclaimed excitedly, quickening his pace to meet him.

"Hey little man!" the big man's impassive mask lit up the moment that he saw him.

The two pals strode forward, seized each-other in an iron grip, and pulled themselves into one of the best man-hugs Max had ever partaken in. He really felt it.

"Good to see you're in good shape, buddy," Conrad said.

"Good shape?" Max drew back and smiled up at him, "I feel fantastic!"

"So you crush some dude in the preliminaries and now you're on Cloud 9, huh?" Conrad chuckled, "Word is, you also got a ribbon."

"Hey," Max smirked, feigning innocence, "I thought that wasn't supposed to become common knowledge before graduation?"

Conrad shrugged, "The recruits over at operations are very talkative, especially around us Special Forces types. They saw you walking out of the Brigadier General's office with your R1, and both of you had ribbons on your chest. Apparently your R1's got a Cross o'Blood too? Man, that's intense."

Max took a step closer and lowered his voice, afraid that someone––especially Ravyn––might overhear them. In the cramped quarters of the barracks, that was inevitable, but Max tried anyway.

"You know about that too?" Max asked, apprehension tugging at his voice.

"Yeah, it's an open secret now. They call her Ghost now, after the stunt she pulled during the field training exercise. Six hours in that mine shaft? Man, I swore we did a sweep of that thing, it was clean."

"Nine hours actually," Max corrected him, "And you did, your patrol just missed a spot."

"Damn," Conrad grimaced, "How close did we get?"

"Pretty damn close," Max said, not particularly interested in that line of conversation, "Conrad, what's a Cross of Blood?"

"You mean you don't know?" Conrad seemed surprised.

"No, I don't," Max grimaced, "I just get the feeling it's something people don't know how to deal with. It was really weird––one moment all of the recruits inside operations were treating us like buddies, and then they saw her ribbon. It's like they suddenly realized they were talking to a God or something––a particularly vengeful one."

"Well uh... From what I've gathered, it's a decoration of some kind that's passed down through the generations. Like, her father has it, and her grandfather. It's like a legacy, you know? It's like she's marked to rise to the top faster than anyone else."

"So, you mean they're saying she gets preferential treatment because she has a ribbon we don't?" Max frowned at the idea.

"That's what people are saying," Conrad shrugged, "Or at least what they're thinking. They're afraid of her, and jealous. It's not pretty Max."

"That... Doesn't seem right," Max intoned uneasily, thinking about everything he already knew about Ravyn: how terrifyingly good she was at handling weapons and leading people; how the general spoke to her––coaching her one-on-one while practically ignoring Max was there; the look in her eyes when the other recruits had flattened themselves to get out of her way.

*Wolves don't concern themselves with the opinions of sheep.*

"I don't know, sport," Conrad raised his arms a bit, as if backing off, "She's your C.O., you know her better than I do. What do you think of her from what you've seen?"

"I think..." Max grimaced. What *did* he think of her?

*If you had to do it again, would you pick him to be your second now?*

*Yes sir, I would.*

*We swore an oath to Rolf the Fifth to defend his country and his people. And Mother willing, even though the monarchy is gone, we will uphold that oath until the Final Sacrament, or until there are none of us left.*

Max bowed his head and squeezed his eyes shut, taking a deep breath.

"She's a damn good officer," he said sharply, looking back up, "That's all I can really say. I don't think she has it easy either."

Conrad seemed not to know how to interpret what he had just seen, and seemed to want to back off from the subject.

"Gotcha man," he said cooly, "Can I see the ribbon, though?"

Max nodded. His hand slipped inside his jacket pocket for the hundredth time that day, his metal fingers wrapping around the ribbon. He couldn't feel it, but he could sense that it was there, somehow. It was real. He really had earned it. He drew out his hand and unravelled it for Conrad, the little green, black, white, and yellow ribbon which had done so much to revive his hopes of making it in the Special Forces.

Conrad leaned over to take a look.

"Sure as hell looks nice," he said.

"Right?" Max said, sounding a little more excited than he meant to, "It's pretty sweet."

"You do know they're only empowered to give these out to one-point-five percent of graduates of Ragow, right?"

"Really?" Max was genuinely surprised.

"Yeah, that's what I heard. Come on man, don't you usually know this sort of thing?"

Max grimaced, "I know a lot about guns, starfighters, starships, robots... You know, the cool stuff. But if there's one thing I've learned in Basic Training, it's that I didn't know shit about the Army."

Conrad chuckled, "You and me both, brother."

Max half-smiled, half-grimaced, looking down at the ribbon in his hand, "You wanna know what the weirdest part is? I *know* it's just a piece of ribbon and it's arbitrary, something they just made up, but *ugh*..."

"A soldier will fight long and hard for a piece of ribbon," Conrad quoted with a grin.

"... and now I know why," Max said dryly, a smirk tugging at his lips, "Do you who that quote is from?"

Conrad shrugged, "Fuck if I know, some general or another?"

"Probably," Max scoffed, rolling his eyes as he slipped the ribbon back into his pocket and held it there, "Nah man, it feels good. You were right, I desperately needed something good to happen to me. It just––didn't happen the way you thought."

Conrad grinned a little bit and leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, "Speaking of Kaz, did I tell you she was the one who did me in during field training?"

"Wait really?" Max exclaimed, eager to hear the story.

"Yeah," Conrad gave a little laugh, "You see, the plan we hatched was to hold the pass with one squad while the my squad camped out under the cover of the trees on the valley floor. The idea was that if you guys rushed the pass––"

"Which we did," Max smirked.

"Which you did, yes––my squad could harass you from behind or catch you sideways on the slope."

Max grinned, "I had a feeling that was you, the squads on the slope said your shots were unusually accurate."

Conrad tapped the lens of his sunglasses with one finger, "Turns out these come in handy at night."

"Well, you threw us for a loop there," Max said, "I'd say your plan worked. Then what happened?"

Conrad grimaced, "Kaz happened."

"Oh boy," Max scoffed.

"Yeeaaah, see I thought you had already committed everything to the slope and to your crazy-ass maneuver, so I came in with all three of my teams on the slope to get as wide a field of fire as possible. You know, the battle was going badly for us at that point and the guys on the mountain were screaming at me to do *something*."

Max nodded.

"Well, we didn't know about Kaz's unit. Not until she was right on top of us."

"Oh come on, Conrad, what about your all-seeing eyesight?" Max needled.

"I was focusing on the battle in front of me," Conrad groaned, "I wasn't looking. You have to be looking, that's what I'm learning with these things."

"Huh," Max said.

"Anyway, we gave her a hell of a fight. We tried to get out of there, and we almost broke through. But turns out, all we did was piss her off."

"Piss her off?" Max scoffed, "What did you do, call her a girl?"

"Eh?" Conrad shrugged quizzically, "The only thing I knew was that my gun was out of ammo, that I was the last alive in my unit, and that I was surrounded by exos from Platoon 12. Apparently, though, Kaz had told them not to fire. She stepped out into the no-man's land herself and angrily told me to take out my sword. She needed to blow off some steam, apparently."

Max's eyes widened, "Holy shit, what? She dueled you in the middle of a live battlefield?"

Conrad laughed, "Well, it wasn't much of a duel..."

"She beat you?"

"Yeah," Conrad said, grimacing and laughing at the same time.

"How long did you last?"

"Honestly, I don't even know, it couldn't have been more than three seconds. That girl's been practicing like a madwoman."

"She has?"

"That's what I hear," Conrad said.

"You hear a lot of things," Max grimaced.

"Hey, people talk," Conrad offered with a shrug, rolling one large shoulder. He glanced at the wall clock, "Listen, it's getting late, but I wanted to ask about one last thing."

Max craned his neck to look at the clock. It was 8:41, almost curfew. He had wanted to go to bed early that night, but catching up with Conrad had been totally worth the sleep lost.

"Yeah? What is it?" Max asked.

"Erich told me you were having trouble with your MCT, that you'd be held back if you didn't do something crazy like win the Ground Fighting Competition. You're not *actually* trying to graduate that way, are you?"

Max stared the sniper in the eyes. In that moment, he resented Erich for having said too much.

"Well," Max equivocated. He had given this a lot of thought, "Now that I've got the ribbon, I only need twenty more points. Ravyn won her duel this morning, and I won mine, though we're in different sections. There's only two duels tomorrow, hers and mine. If we both win, we'll advance to the final and face off. I'm guaranteed twenty points either way, and honestly she would probably win that."

"You think?" Conrad asked.

"Yeah, she would. You haven't seen her with a sword yet, it's scary. If I lose tomorrow, but she wins, I still have a pretty high chance of getting twenty points."

"And what if Ravyn loses tomorrow?"

It was so absurd Max had not even considered it.

He scoffed, "Who could beat Ravyn?"

## Day 6

### Part 1

The final two days of Hell Week were rest days. After breakfast, the platoons were allowed to tend to the chores which had been piling up. Laundry, changing the sheets, cleaning the bathroom, repairing the equipment, scrubbing the showers––all of it was now being taken care of under the strict supervision of the R1's. As Max labored with the others to put the barracks in order, scrubbing boots with a brush, he counted down the moments until someone came to get him and Ravyn to suit up for the competition. The raven-haired girl had gone out that morning to do laps around the courtyard.

"You wanna come with, Metal?" she had asked him, pausing in front of his bunk as he was dressing. She was in her shirt and a towel around her neck.

"What, are you crazy?" Max had blurted out as he struggled with his belt, "Isn't it a rest day? Besides, shouldn't I save my energy for the competition?"

"Suit yourself," she had shrugged, "You're on boot duty, then, and Heinkel might have more for you to do after that."

While she was gone, a trickle of his platoon mates came to wish Max good luck, but he had a funny feeling they were really looking for Ravyn. That is, all except Markwardt and Erich, Max knew they were earnest. Despite that, Max felt hopeful. He had a part to play––a small part, but he was okay with that. Since the training exercise, people had stopped giving him shit––overtly, at least. Now, they seemed not quite what to make of him. Or if he was lucky, they didn't mind him at all. Anything was better than being the platoon's butt monkey. He could get used to this, being Ravyn's second fiddle. And if Ravyn's behavior was any indicator, she was getting used to him as well.

They came for him at 10:42 and he and Ravyn got into the back of a jeep. They were driven to the warehouse where the suits were being kept. They stripped to their underwear in full sight of the engineers, who were also recruits being supervised by an instructor.

"Do you know what our policy on modesty is in the Special Forces?" a Drill Sergeant had asked during their first day at Ragow, "We have none. Get used to it."

Max had gotten used to it.

The engineers helped them into the full-body jumpsuits which served as padded and airtight underarmor, chit-chatting with them all the way. Max managed to banter easily with them, but Ravyn stayed mostly silent and answered their attempts to rope her into the conversation with curtness that discouraged further conversation. The engineers then fitted on the armored plates one at a time, starting at the crotch and working their way up.

When they plodded out into the Company Area, the bleachers were full. The whole of Bravo Company was there assembled in their fatigues and clutching their berets against the light wind. Two grass arenas had been sprayed onto the turf in white paint. Max felt nerves tugging at his stomach. He tried to remind himself that the didn't have much to lose. It was almost a sure thing now.

Ravyn went first by unspoken agreement, her large black shoulder plates swaying as she walked. The number "41" had been emblazoned onto her pauldrons, as it had been on Max's.

"Good luck," Max muttered through his suit's loudspeakers.

"Yeah," he heard Ravyn reply sharply, "Win, so I can kick your ass tomorrow."

"Pffft," Max scoffed with a sour grin, "Right..."

*That's the plan. But maybe I'll surprise us tomorrow. You never know.*

They both entered their respective rings where their opponents were waiting. The matches would happen simultaneously, to the best of five bouts. One touch was all it took to end a bout.

*Alright, everyone's watching,* Max thought as he raised his blade and sliced the air in a gesture of salute. His opponent, who wore the numbers "75" on his shoulder, mirrored him. He was big. Impossibly big.

*Hm... Anyone I know? Probably not, I don't know anyone from Platoon 75 other than––*

"BEGIN!"

*WOAH, shit!*

Max raised his guard just in time. The two blades crashed together. Max felt the impact deep inside his shoulder.

*Mother of––*

Another swing. Max raised his blade to block again, bracing himself as best he could. When the impact struck, he was forced to yield ground to absorb the blow.

*He's gonna break his sword, or mine, if he keeps doing that,* Max thought with wild eyes,

The third blow Max saw coming. He sidestepped, blocked it at an angle, directed the energy away from his body, and...

RIPOSTE!

Max pivoted on his front foot and twisted his sword towards the hulk's chest.

The tip connected. The whole sword bent like a reed. If it had been made of hardlight, that would have been a kill.

The hulk's alarms wailed.

*Alright, I can do this,* Max thought, pulling away with gritted teeth.

### Part 2

The crowd was cold at first, but as Max danced around his opponent, his platoonmates began to warm up. The thrum of suspense was palpable when 75 caught Max in a bind. The crowd cheered and screamed when one Max's strikes grazed 75's shoulder. While the umpire judged, Max turned around and saw that some of them were even on their feet. He felt their disappointment when the hit was ruled superficial––inadmissible.

The score was still 1-0.

The energy in the air was intoxicating, but part of Max couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong.

*Yeah, you guys want your twenty points?* the cynic within Max thought, *You fuckers are gonna have to cheer harder!*

Having the backing of his peers didn't feel like he thought it would feel. The boy in the suit had convinced himself that popularity was superficial, that looks were bullshit, that institutions were bad, that awards were made up, that all other people were selfish, stupid, short-sighted, and not worth his time. Now the mob, which had ignored and shunned him all his life, which he had tried his best to shun and ignore, was cheering for *him*.

Were they cheering him for the right reasons? Perhaps not. Did that make the attention any less thrilling? No, it didn't. He wanted more of it. He yearned for it with the desperation of a child who had been starved of it all of his life. Did that make him a hypocrite? Max certainly felt so.

The main problem of this duel was reach. 75 had longer arms and so had more of it. This meant he could more effectively keep Max away from his body. The boy in the suit did have an advantage, though: he was smaller and had less mass, which meant he could change direction faster. He tried to use this as often as he could. Every time it seemed like he was going to become the victim of another one of 75's mighty blows, Max danced well out of range, circling around the ring as to avoid going out of bounds.

This wasn't like fighting Ravyn, who was nerve-rackingly unpredictable and would have punished him if had relaxed his attention for even a second. 75 was slow, lumbering. He wound up his strikes like an idiot, giving them away long before they were even on their way. Max just had to fend off his blows, keep his technique together, and wait for the other guy to overextend. As they faced off, their breaths coming raggedly and their suits heaving with their exertions, Max found his mind wandering.

Max wondered if Kaz was watching. If she was watching, did she know it was him in the black powered suit facing off against someone twice his size?

*Heh...*, he thought as he dodged another swing, *Look at me now, am I right?*

It was a bittersweet fantasy.

*Let me let you into a little secret about the wonderful world of Recruit Max Hoffman––it ain't gonna happen.*

*How do I look?*

*Weird...,* she had said.

*... Good weird or bad weird?*

*Weird!*

*It was good to see you I'm glad you're doing okay after four weeks of this.*

*Are you sure you're doing okay?*

*It's okay, don't worry about it.*

*You saw her yesterday––and you don't know how she's doing?*

"Fuckin'...," 75 panted, "Stand still, pipsqueak... So I can hit you,"

*Okay,* Max thought, *that's enough of **that**.*

"Getting tired big guy?" Max panted back over his suit's intercom, planting himself firmly on the ground with his guard raised, "I can do this all day."

"Hhnng..."

*Oh, he's going to rush me for sure.*

Suddenly, 75 dove forward with his blade extended.

Max was ready for him. He deflected the blow in a wide arc, pivoted, and...

The big man's suit wailed.

### Part 3

"AND THAT'S MATCH!" the Drill Instructor shouted into a megaphone, his voice echoing off the walls of the barracks.

Max felt the elation of the crowd. The air vibrated in his chest, even through the protective armor of the suit. As graciously as he could, Max planted his blade in the ground, and his opponent did the same, and they walked to meet one-another in the middle of the field. Like the cavaliers of old, they gripped each other's forearms to general applause.

"You... Really had me going there," 75 panted as they turned towards the crowd and saluted.

"It was a good fight," Max agreed, "I'm Max, Max Hoffman, by the way."

"Peter Messer."

They shook hands, and Max felt that they left the field as friends.

"YOU ARE DISMISSED!" the Drill Instructor shouted. The audience in the bleachers stood as one and began filtering out. Max's squad and platoon mates met him on the field, mobbing him and clapping him on the shoulder.

"Hey, good job!"

"Those were some nice moves out there."

"You're our best hope to win this now."

"It's too bad about R1 Ravyn."

*Wait, what?* Max didn't know if he had heard that right.

"What about Ravyn?" he gasped as he struggled to remove his helmet.

But before anyone could answer, he found himself face-to-face with the raven-haired girl. The mob had cleared a path for her and she had found him. Max made eye contact with her. The depth of hurt and confusion he found in those black eyes froze him in place. Nobody seemed to know what to say.

"Well," Max said, "Are you going to kick my ass tomorrow, or what?"

Ravyn's eyes flashed fire.

"No," she hissed, raising a gauntleted finger towards the super suit at the other end of the field, as if she were an angry spirit pointing out the woman who had murdered her, "She is."

Max looked to find that the woman across the field had removed her helmet and was starting right at him. Her eyes were made of jade, her hair was a kiss of fire, and her face was a mask of scorn.

*Oh no.*

### Part 4

It was evening, an hour before curfew, and Max had spotted Kaz out his window practicing alone in the Company Area, lit by a spotlight from a nearby tower. When he sulked outside, he realized she had been at it for a while, judging by how her beige shirt clung to her body and the sheen of sweat on her brow. She was swinging a wooden training sword in a flurry, repeating techniques Max had never learned faster than he could even see them. It was cold outside, and Max had stepped out with his hands buried deep in the pockets of his camo jacket.

As he circled the company area to join her, hidden by the faint light but making no effort to mask the sound of his footsteps on the dirt path, he saw a cloth hanging like a banner from the bleachers. It was Kaz's jacket. A chilly autumn wind was picking up and was swaying it slightly. It was getting dark, and he worried she might be getting cold. Would Kaz be angry at him if she brought it to her? Max legitimately did not know.

*Take risks with these things, man,* Conrad had said, *Go big.*

Max jumped on to the bleachers and snatched the jacket. Heart in one hand, camo jacket in the other, he approached her.

"Hey," he said tentatively, announcing his presence.

She froze, and then slowly dropped her guard. Her shoulders slumped.

"Hey Max," she sighed. She didn't sound thrilled to see him. Max's heart fell heavy in his chest.

*You talked to her yesterday––and you don't know how she's doing?*

"I just..." Max scrambled to find something to say. He felt like an idiot now, holding on to the jacket––*her* jacket––when it sounded like she didn't want to see him at all. Could he put it back without her noticing? "... wanted to ask if things are okay."

Kaz looked up at the sky. Her leather gloves creaked as she tightened her grip on the wooden sword. Max swore he heard her sniffle, but he understood very little of what was happening.

"I'm fine," she said bitingly.

"I just thought..."

"I'M FINE, MAX," she screamed.

Max recoiled, as if he had been slapped in the face. There was no ambiguity about it. She wasn't kidding. It hurt. Max's eyes glistened in the darkness, and he heard himself sniffle a little too.

*Fuck, don't cry now, not in front of her,* Max pleaded.

Neither of them moved. Neither of them yielded.

"I didn't want it to be you," she finally said quietly after they had stood there for a while.

"Yeah," Max rushed to agree with her, "I didn't want it to be you either, but... why are you upset about it?"

*You and Ravyn both, sweet Mother of all things. You could hear her shouting this afternoon from the fourth wing of the barracks!*

This seemed to make Kaz tense up even more. She planted the sword in the grass and slowly turned to look at him. She was wearing a hard mask and her eyes glared at him. It was hard to maintain her gaze when the pit in his stomach kept getting deeper and deeper. It was telling him he had done something wrong, something horribly wrong to make her this angry. Had she always been this tall? What had he done? Had he been a bad friend? Was she angry about her jacket? Had he forgotten to say something, or said something without meaning to?

*Max, what did you do?*

"Kaz..." Max choked, "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Max––" Kaz said sharply, with difficulty, as if she was throwing something at his feet, "I'm not like you, okay?"

"I never said you wer––"

Her voice rose significantly in volume.

"Do you have any idea how hellish this whole thing has been for me?!"

Max stared at her, his eyes wide, like a deer caught in headlights.

"Wh–what?"

"Basic Training, the whole thing, everything about it," she hissed.

"But I thought you––"

"I'M A GIRL, MAX," she screamed, as if Max would know what she meant. He didn't. There were tears in her eyes, "And do you know what I did before this? I WAS IN A WHEELCHAIR, AND I SANG."

"KAZ, I BROUGHT YOUR COAT," panicking, Max held the jacket in front of him, bunched up at the collar, like it could shield him from Kaz's rage.

Now it was Kaz's turn to stare at him.

"What?" she said quizzically after a few moments.

"I thought you might be cold..."

She strode forward briskly and raised her hand, as if to slap him. Max braced himself and shut his eyes. The jacket was snatched from his grip.

"Max..." Kaz groaned.

Max reopened his eyes. She was putting the jacket on.

"Mother above," she said, "For the thousandth time, *I'm not going to hit you!*"

Max gulped, "I never know..."

"When have I ever hit you?!"

"There... have been a few times."

"Would you like me to stop?"

"Please," Max said.

"Alright," she said curtly, threading the last button and shoving her hands into its pockets, "I'll stop."

Max swallowed. Kaz's shrill scream still rang in his ears, and it was all he could do to keep from breaking down further. Kaz was watching his expression carefully. He didn't know what she was thinking, and that made him feel worse.

"Kaz," Max finally struggled to say, "Can you explain to me what you meant, by being a girl makes basic training hard?"

Kaz looked at him for another moment.

"You don't know?"

"No, I don't," Max snapped.

This seemed to sting Kaz a little, who looked off to the side, her eyes glistening a bit more. She shifted her posture on her two feet, then quickly, delicately, wiped at her nose. A single tear fell down her cheek, and she stole a glance at the stars.

"I'm so sorry," Max rushed to say.

"No it's––" Kaz stammered, her voice breaking as she tried to speak. Then it came out all at once.

"It's just––It's so fucking hard to do all of this when all the guys in your unit are running a pool to see who will get to bang you first, you know?"

The pit in his stomach turned to a hot coal of anger, and sadness and despair rose within him like a tide. He also felt jealousy and envy, but those were ugly and he didn't want to listen to them right now. Now it was Max's turn to shed tears.

"Fucking..." he could think of nothing else to say, "That's... horrible."

"Yeah," Kaz said, turning away, looking anywhere but at Max, "And the pressure, the constant catcalling, guys getting into my bed at night, them peeking into the showers, never feeling safe––"

"Holy fucking hell," Max exclaimed, "And your R1's aren't doing anything about this?"

"No. They were protecting the guys. That's why I became an R1, not because I'm any fucking good at it."

Max was speechless.

"Well..." she wiped her nose with her sleeve and looked up, giving a bitter little laugh, the kind of laugh that results when one is forced to choose between that or crying, "They call me 'The Bitch' now, and they're just waiting for the moment where I can't take it anymore and am forced to give up my rank. But at least right now they leave me and the women in my command alone."

Max the feelings surged around him like a monsoon. He didn't know what to say. He didn't know if he could say or do anything, but he tried to open his mouth just the same, just in case the words came. But they didn't.

Kaz's eyes widened; she took a step back, "Max, whatever you're gonna say, don't mock this. Just––*please*."

Max was horrified. It felt like he had been punched in the gut.

"What?" he asked weakly.

"Don't."

"Kaz, I––" Max snapped, more harshly than he meant to, "I'm not gonna. I was never going to. I would *never.* What kind of monster do you think I am that I would mock something like that?!"

Kaz stared at him for a few seconds. It seemed like it was her turn to not know what to say.

"... You've mocked some pretty fucked up things. It's––like, it's gotten to the point where you're in my head making fun of every, single, fucking little––"

"Do you want me to stop?" Max interrupted her through gritted teeth.

"YES!"

"Fine then, I'll stop."

"*Thank you.*"

"Wait, so I'm in your head?"

"Yeah," she admitted, her lips pursed, "It's not fun."

"I'm not sure there's much I can do about the voice in your head..."

"Well, at least you can stop making it worse!" she bit back sharply.

"Yeah..." Max grimaced, he was still trying to keep his head above the flood of feeling, still trying to orient himself; it was like trying to keep walking in a straight line in a tempest, "... Let me know if there's anything I said you want to talk about. I respect you, Kaz––a lot, actually––and I never wanted to hurt you."

"Okay," she said, still with that edge in her voice, "I will."

They had turned away from each other by degrees, hands in their jacket pockets, as if to shield themselves from the raw hurt that was passing through them. Silence hung in the air, but it wasn't silence that Max felt compelled to fill. It was a heavy silence, the calm *after* a storm and before the work of rebuilding begins. Max was left feeling guilty, exhausted, and confused. They both looked up at the stars, as if there were answers hidden up there.

"It's uh..." Max hesitated, "I don't know if now's a good time to mention this. Basic Training has been hell for me too––not like you, but––you know."

"Really?" Kaz asked quietly, looking at him, "How?"

Max swallowed.

"Well. For one thing, I'm the Platoon butt monkey––"

"PFFF!" Kaz couldn't contain it for even a second, she burst out laughing, "Oh Mother above, *that makes too much sense.*"

Max's eyes went wide, and the tears came again.

*"Kaz!"* he shrieked, horrified, "I thought we said we wouldn't mock this?!"

Kaz quieted herself down immediately, her hand covering her mouth, though she was still smiling with her eyes.

"I'm sorry," she was still laughing at him in her voice; this was the nightmare just as Max had imagined it, "Go on?"

"Kaz," Max tried to keep his voice from breaking, "I'm failing basic training."

Kaz's eyes widened with shock, and then with horror at what she had just done. She took a few steps back, both hands covering her mouth now. She looked like she wished she had been born mute.

"Oh... *Fuck*. Max, I'm such an asshole, I'm so sorry."

"It's okay," Max said quietly, looking away, "I... kind of set myself up for that one by leading with 'butt monkey.'"

"But still..."

Max looked back up and into her eyes. He found there the same sadness he felt, reflected right back at him, like a mirror in another person. Max had never seen something so beautiful, or with the power to touch him so deeply, to heal and soothe––to make okay.

He said nothing.

"I thought you'd love it here," Kaz added after a while.

"Yeah well, I––"

"This is like, your stuff, your people, you've always wanted to be in the army, you're good at this, you––"

"Yeah well," Max said sharply, "Apparently not. Apparently I suck."

"... Didn't you get the Honors medal?"

Max's took the medal out from his jacket pocket. In that moment, as the little ribbon rested in his hand, it felt meaningless to him––worthless in comparison what he had just felt looking into Kaz's eyes. It was a small little thing, a piece of stitched cloth. He had known it all along, he had just wanted to believe. He just had never admitted it to himself.

"This?" Max looked at her, his eyes scintillating, "... It's for something my R1 did. I just was there at the right moment and didn't fuck up."

Kaz eyed the ribbon in his hand with a pained expression. It seemed like she hadn't learned the lesson Max had just learned. She still wanted it, badly, more than anything else in the world.

"So you want to earn the medal for yourself through the competition?"

"No! Fuck medals, I just want to graduate on time. I need twenty extra points, and I'll be good."

"Ah, right, the competition also awards fifty points," Kaz seemed pained to realize it.

"If you're not in it for the points," Max looked at her sideways, "Why do you want to win?"

Kaz's hands closed into tight fists, and she looked away.

"I want the medal. I want to show the guys I can do it. I want to––I wanna earn this, for myself. I want to earn something because I worked hard for it."

She looked at him with despair ringed inside her eyes, and with a glimmer of hope that he might understand, "It's important to me, but I'm just not explaining it very well."

Max nodded, also feeling the strain that she was feeling. "Alright. Well––I suppose the only way to really resolve this is to fight tomorrow and see who wins. I just want you to promise me something."

"What?"

"Please don't make fun of me if I get held back in Basic Training."

Her eyes lit up and she smiled a dazzling smile, as if it was the easiest thing in the world for her to do, and she was happy to do it.

"Alright, I promise."

"And can you make sure that Conrad and Erich don't make fun of me either?"

"Alright," she laughed.

Max took a deep breath and smiled too, "Okay," he said. "That sounds fair."

"Yeah!"

"The best swordsman––"

"––or swordswoman––"

"––it's definitely going to be 'swordsman'," Max grinned, laughing.

"Hey, fuck you!" Kaz exclaimed. Even though there were still silver lines on her cheeks which reflected the light when she moved, it felt really good to see her giggle and smile again.

"Fine," Max said, "the best, 'whatever-the-gender-neutral-pronoun-for-swordsman-is', will win, and that's fair."

"It is."

"Shake on it?"

"How about we hug instead?"

## Day 7

### Part 1

Max stepped into the ring the next morning under a general hum of excitement. Patriotic music was playing on the loudspeakers, the bleachers were packed with all sorts of officers, soldiers, and recruits from other sections and departments. There was no seating arrangement, so uniforms were mixed in a tangled mass––dress uniforms with fatigues, berets with caps, logistics and MP patches with special forces badges. Some of the recruits on the bench were completely bald and gaping––those had just gotten off the bus. The more experienced ones had a disciplined mat of hair and looked on with interested smirks––as if they were wise to what was about to happen.

The Brigadier General and staff sat in the VIP box. The big General with armored plated cheeks was in his black dress uniform, his gloved hands resting on a large officer's saber planted firmly in between his legs.

It felt like a fairground, or the site of a big game. Kaz was in her black suit, entering the opposite side of the ring. The number "12" was emblazoned on her shoulder, just like the number "41" was emblazoned on Max's.

"Listen up," a Drill Sergeant's voice echoed through the speakers in the tower above, "Welcome to the Ground Fighting Competition. The rules are simple: if a combatant is hit in a non-superficial way with their opponent's blade, that is a HIT. When one of the suits registers a hit, you will..."

Max's attendants handed Max a training blade. Across the yard, Kaz received hers.

*They're really going all out,* Max thought. He could feel the excitement in his chest and the butterflies in his stomach. His legs felt like jello. He would have thought that his body would have gotten used to being at the center of big events like this, given how many times he had had to do it. But every time, the stakes kept getting higher, and the crowd kept getting bigger.

As Max glanced across the field to the friend he knew was in the other suit, he felt for the first time that it would be okay if he lost.

*Promise me you won't make fun of me if I get held back in basic training.*

*I promise,* she had said.

Max smiled. He remembered the hug afterwards, how they had clung to each other for much too long like shipwrecked survivors, how warm relief and good feeling had passed through them with just a touch. Apparently she had needed a hug just as badly as he had. They had both needed a hug that was nothing more than a hug, but nothing less either. A hug like that meant that everything was okay. It meant she liked and appreciated him. It meant she accepted him for who he was.

That was more than enough to get him through the rest of basic training.

"... If you step out of bounds, that is a POINT for your opponent..."

Max gripped his sword and tested it. The controls to the suit were good. The blade was good. It all felt right.

"We will go to the BEST OF FIVE. Now, the duelists may approach each-other."

In the old style, Max and Kaz held their crossguards against their chests, their blades spiring upwards. They advanced and stopped within a few paces of each other. Then, they turned on their heels towards the flagpole that presided over the barracks. It flew the Karian blue, white, and black.

The Cross of Weingart had once represented the monarch. For thousands of years, it was him that dueling cavaliers had honored when they saluted his flag. The cavaliers were gone. The king was gone. But the nation remained, and it was the nation now that Special Forces––the inheritors of the powered armor warrior tradition––honored when they saluted the flag for which it stood.

"All stand."

In a sight that was rare on an army base, the crowd on the bleachers rose in disorder. They rose not as one, but as individuals taking their time, minding their own conversations, and taking it at their own pace. Hundreds of different feelings played on hundreds of faces. Max saw smiles and frowns. He saw people laugh. He saw people who looked bored. Hundreds of idiosyncrasies mingled with the general movement, bringing into evidence different personalities which––even though they all dressed the same, slept in the same bunks, did the same things, spoke the same way––had not been destroyed by the army's drive towards homogeneity and sameness, only suppressed.

Max drew comfort from that. It meant that they were all still human––albeit human beings who were beginning to learn to march as one, to fight as one, when asked.

Then the call came.

"ATTENTION!"

All conversations stopped, and all gathered immediately looked forward, their expressions impassive.

"FLIGHT!"

Five hundred men and women snapped at attention, their heels clicking in unison. Even the Brigadier General was on his feet and paying his respects to the flag and the nation which he served. The Karian anthem began to play, and the bleachers sang.

This was the moment. Max had thought about it all morning. Who knew what would happen a couple weeks down the line, especially if he was held back? Kaz could meet someone, they could get so swamped with assignments that they would have no time for new commitments, they could get separated. He could lose her forever, and always be left wondering, "What if?" He felt he had a good chance just then, he felt he knew how to do it, and damn it, it was worth the risk.

Kaz was not singing either. Max pinged her suit and they established a private channel. The higher-ups would never know. It would be their little secret.

"Hey Max!" she said with a smile in her voice when the channel came online, "You're not singing?"

"Nah," Max chuckled, "Not really my style. You?"

"I don't sing anymore."

Max did not have much time.

"Right––Hey, I was thinking about this whole thing, and I've found one more way to make it work."

"Oh? What's that?"

"Well, if one of us loses, the other's probably not gonna feel too great. So how about this, when *I* win, and this is all over, I'll take you out to dinner."

"Excuse me," Kaz snapped with laughter in her voice, "You mean, when *I* win, I'll take *you* out to dinner?"

"Deal," he said.

"Deal."

Max held his breath. It was all he could do to keep himself from laughing out loud. And if he started, he was afraid he would never be able to stop. There was silence on the line for a few seconds.

"Wait––" Kaz said suddenly, "Did I just agree to a date?"

"I'm afraid you did, m'am," Max said in his best soldier's voice, grinning.

"Motherfucker!" Kaz was laughing, and it was the good kind of laughter, "Alright, fuck it, I'm down. Well played."

"Thank you," Max could barely contain his excitement.

## A Month and a Half After

Max's heels clicked loud and fast as he and a torrent of other people shouldered their way through the gangway that separated the passenger ship from the hab. It was a metal tunnel with reinforced glass windows which gave off into space. As Max crossed over, duffel hanging from one shoulder, he glanced to his left, then his right. There were more gangways, more passengers, and more baggage offloading and onloading at a brisk pace. The starships cycling in and out were little more than white cylinders with thrusters on them, most of them operated by the same companies with ruthless efficiency. Inside the gangways, attendants in imposing uniforms and white gloves patterned after those of the military ushered people along and urged them to pick up the pace. Every few minutes, a ship departed, and another arrived. The gates had to be kept turning, lest the queue of ships waiting to get into the port become unmanageable.

Beyond the terminal, Max could see the brown-gray metallic slope of Surheim, the largest artificial habitat in the Kornhofen system. The great cylinder, which slowly spun in place to simulate gravity for those who lived in it, was ghastly and featureless on the outside. But all along the inside was a lush surface area the size of several continents. Living in it were billions of people.

To get to the open air inside the hab, Max had to get through the port first. His ship had originated nationally, and he was about to be spat out into Arrivals, so he did not have to go through security. He didn’t have to stop and wait at the baggage claim either given that everything he had brought from Ragow fit in the duffel the army issued him. He could just take off, as fast as his feet could carry him.

The babel of the terminal hit him before he was ready for it. After several months of rural austerity in Ragow, Max found himself in one of the cavernous and crowded terminals of Orwege National Spaceport. He was traveling alone. In his blacks, beret, and white gloves, he stood out like a sore thumb. People kept their distance. They made way for him, nodded to him respectfully as he passed, but in general went about their business. It was a strange feeling, being among civilians again, even though barely a year ago he had been one himself.

Max ditched the crowd around the baggage conveyor, crossed the terminal, and joined the current along the semitransparent glass wall which separated the terminal from the magrails where the high-speed trains ran. He took out his phone––another odd thing.
The army had taken all of his electronics at the beginning of training. Max's first message when he got his phone back after graduation had been to Kaz, because of course it had been. Painfully, the conversation had been slow and halting. They had been eager to talk, but they were in two separate systems. Even over such a short distance, subspace could not travel between stars nearly as fast as they could type. Service gaps in rural Ragow had made things even worse.

But just then, as Max's phone powered on in the terminal, it had full service. He opened his messages and saw that Kaz's profile had a green dot on it. They were on the same subnet. They could talk in real time.

**Kasmira**
Heey!
I'm at station DD30
 **Max**
Yup!
brt
walking as fast as i can lmao
No rush!

At Orwege, there was one magnetic rail station for every twenty gates. Max had come in at gate DD40. Walking ten gates had not seemed a lot to him on paper when he and Kaz had planned this, but as he walked briskly through the interminable halls trying to keep one eye on his phone and one eye on where he was going, reality turned out to be quite different.

Max looked up from his phone, descended into the station, and began walking down the length of the platform. It was lit from above by uncaring fluorescents and there were two rails, one for each direction, guarded by giant walls of plexiglass with double-doors at intervals. The air reeked of exposed metal and concrete, and it was much, much colder than Max would have liked. The tunnels hummed and crackled with the sound of tracks, ventilation, and turning gears.

Max waded through the lagoon of people pressed thickly on the platform until he spotted her. She was in full military dress, sitting on a bench near the middle of the platform (some guy had probably given up his seat for her). She seemed drawn in around herself, like she was trying to make herself take up as little space as possible, though the morass of bodies still pressed in around her. Her nose was in her phone and she was tapping away. She looked beautiful, rested, healthy––happy, if a little uncomfortable. She was even wearing makeup and didn't have her beret, instead wearing her fiery curls down, which Max hadn't expected.

The sight made Max smile. Kaz spotted him out of the corner of her eye and was suddenly on her feet, the phone disappearing into the pockets of her uniform. She stepped through the crowd towards him and they pulled each other close. They held on tightly, an echo of that desperate and intimate embrace from back in the courtyard. Kaz’s phone buzzed erratically between them, but she ignored it. Max pursed his lips. His phone never buzzed like that. He tried to ignore it. It was hard to enjoy a hug in a noisy station, but Max did his best.

Quickly, she pulled away and grinned at him.

“You’re graduated!”

“Yeah!” Max smiled, “Only a little bit later than I had hoped, you’ve been here for what? Two weeks?”

“Three, actually!”

“How’s the new post––being a Specialist?”

Kaz gripped one of the patches on her forearms self-consciously, as if she was still not used to it being there.

“It’s been alright. The guys are more civil, and I’ve got my own rooms, so…”
Max breathed a sigh of relief.

“I’m glad, I’m really glad.”

“And you? You were reassigned after our duel. Was that okay?”

“They made me redo everything I failed at, which was actually good practice. Given that a Sergeant was working with me one-on-one, it actually helped a lot. Scared the shit out of me, but I eventually realized he was trying to help me, not make my life hell.”

“Well, that’s good! Did you have to do Hell Week over again?”

“Nah,” Max smiled, “I did okay during Hell Week, it was those first few weeks of basic training which really beat the crap out of me.”

Kaz flashed relief, letting out a breath, though at she looked at him the sadness in her eyes deepened.

“I’m still really sorry I couldn’t make it to your graduation.”

“TRAIN APPROACHING––DIRECTION: KARKEN STATION”

People began to crowd the double-doors, many of them still on their phones. Max glanced around at the signs to try to understand how it was supposed to work here. He gathered that the doors would open first on one side of the train to let people off, and then they would open on their side to let people on. It made more sense than most trains he had been on, but then again Max had not been on trains meant to handle this volume of traffic.

“Is that us?” Max asked.

“Yeah,” Kaz said as she reached over and snatched one of his metallic hands, “Come on, let’s get in line so we don’t have to wait for the next one.”

Max let himself be dragged along. It gave him a moment to think. Kaz had apologized a few times for not being there when he marched out of Ragow with the others. Nobody he knew had been there, though that’s something he expected. Ravyn, Conrad, Erich, Markwart, Kaz––all of them had already graduated. His father was usually busy with work––and at that moment he was being Court Martialed on Herrath. His mother had remarried and no longer considered herself a Hoffman. It had been like this for all of his graduations, but it still hurt.

No matter how many times Kaz had apologized over text, and how many times he had told her it was okay, he had not been sure he actually believe it. But as he heard her say it––in person––and saw the look in her eyes, a warm rush had lapped over his hurt. When it receded, the ache was still there, but it had lessened somehow. It would be better soon.
Kaz led him to the double-doors where it seemed most likely that they would be able to get in. The train bulleted into the station, a white, blue, and yellow blur. It gradually slowed to a stop. Max looked inside and saw that the train was already packed. The doors on the other side opened and enough people got out that it was probably going to work.

Kaz was holding on to his hand tightly, a mask of concentration on her face.

“Hey Kaz?” Max said as the doors on their side opened and the press closed in.

“One second Max,” Kaz said sharply, “I wanna make sure we’re on the train first.”

Max nodded and was suddenly jerked along into the breach. They made it in before the doors closed, though unless someone stood up for them both, they were probably going to be standing. A few men offered Kaz their seats, but Kaz turned them down to stay standing next to Max. The girl with fire-hair took out her phone hurriedly and started looking through it while she still had service.

The train started to move.

©Axel Clavier 2019

**Year**
-1 NAC