Days Gone By Chapter 6

…the job was deceptively simple on paper.  Soldiers capable of going behind enemy lines, of fighting alone or in small groups, of doing the ugly things like breaking supply lines and killing commanders.  It was a new kind of war, a new idea in a world where tanks and trench lines were the norm, followed by bloody infantry battles across the open fields.  It was a quiet kind of war that the Empire, and the world at large, was unprepared for.  And for my part in it?  I was there at its birth, had my hand in its forging, may whatever gods there are forgive me for it.

-Ch. 2, The River of Vasel, Days Gone By: A Memoir of the Gallian Front

Chapter Six

The training yard lay under a steel‑gray sky, a churned sea of mud slicked from the night's relentless rain. At the center, the mock village stood as a battered skeleton of itself; charred scaffolding, shattered windows, and collapsed door frames now more symbol than structure. Black scorch marks bled across the walls like old scars, and the acrid stink of half-detonated charges still lingered in the cold air.

Wendy Cheslock was the first to break formation, again. Perched behind a low barricade of sandbags and scorched pallets, she hummed tunelessly to herself as she fiddled with an improvised incendiary charge. There was no precision in her work, only energy- reckless, radiant, and terrifying. Her enthusiasm outpaced her caution by whole orders of magnitude. The fuse sparked too fast. A sudden gust caught the flame and threw it sideways into a pile of hay used to simulate livestock cover. The blaze flared to life instantly, roaring up the outer wall of a nearby mock stable. Wendy stumbled backward, shrieking half in fear, half in awe, then scrambled after it with a fire extinguisher already spitting dust. Smoke clouded the alleyway before the training sergeant could even blow his whistle.

Across the compound, Jane Turner was already mid‑sprint, her submachine gun clenched in both fists, eyes burning like a stormfront. "Stand clear!" she bellowed with gravel in her voice, slamming through crates and rubble, her boots crunching glass and bone‑dry plaster. She spotted a roadblock, nothing more than plywood stacked to waist height, and charged straight into it. The barricade held. Jane didn't. Her momentum flipped her straight over the top, landing her in a tangled heap of mannequin limbs and broken scaffolding. As she sprang up, coated in mud and bruises, she barked, "Obstacle! I neutralized it!" Seconds later, the training simulation declared her 'mission killed' again, for the third time that day.

Marina Wulfstan was nowhere to be found when the scenario began. She had moved without a word, slipping into the periphery like a shadow with breath. From her vantage in a bombed‑out second‑story window, she observed in silence, calculating wind angles, escape routes, and fields of fire. But when my voice came through the headset- "Marina, shift left. You're exposed"- it was already too late. She'd gone dark. Again. Fifteen minutes later, after the mission had failed and the others were shouting over the comms, she reappeared from the foliage on the northern ridge, boots soaked, rifle clean, eyes downcast. "I thought you said cover," she murmured apologetically, voice brittle as old glass.

And Juno Coren, ever the professional, stood over the smoking aftermath like a mortician at a mass grave. She clutched her clipboard like a lifeline; charts, radio logs, field diagrams all scrawled with neat arrows and color-coded lanes of advance. "We were supposed to flank east, breach at mark zero, sweep the courtyard and converge center," she snapped, pacing back and forth. "Wendy, your fire set the timing off by forty seconds. Jane, you breached before the sweep. Marina… Marina, I don't even know where you were. We lost every advantage we had. Again."

Wendy snorted, brushing ash off her singed sleeve. "You mean we lost your spreadsheet advantage. Because Valkyrur forbids anything happen that's not in your little notebook of death."

Juno spun. "This isn't a game. If that were live ordinance, you'd be dead. Twice."

"I don't see you jumping into a room full of shrapnel to figure it out," Jane barked, stepping between them. "We're not all hoity-toity Command Center number crunchers, Juno. Sometimes you don't have time for a damn committee to decide what to do!  You just have to  move!"

Juno's jaw clenched. "And that's why you're always the first one down."

Jane shoved forward. "Because I lead. Because I'm out front, taking the hit you're too busy calculating out of the fight."

"Enough!" Marina's voice cut in like a sharp gust of wind. All eyes turned. "You're all talking like we're not dying out there. Like this is about who's right."

No one spoke. The fire from Wendy's mishap still hissed quietly behind them.

Juno lowered her eyes, face pale but taut. "I'm trying to keep us alive and get the job done. That's all."

Wendy crossed her arms. "Then try listening next time. Plans change. We're not chess pieces."

A cold silence settled over the team like a tarp pulled over a corpse. The sun was setting now, long shadows slicing across the ruined yard. Smoke still curled from burned straw. Shell casings and mud clung to every boot, every glove, every soul.

I watched them bicker through the haze of smoke and failure, arms folded across my chest to keep them from shaking. Not from the cold. Not from rage. From shame, most of it mine. Three days. Three days of drills, mock raids, breaching exercises, and every single one of them ended like this. Four women, all more than capable on paper, disintegrating the moment they were forced to share a battlefield. I stood there, jaw clenched, letting the shouting roll over me like static, like shrapnel I was too tired to dodge.

Wendy was on the defensive, ash-streaked and still slightly smoking from her latest "happy accident." Jane was pacing like a caged wolf, blood still up from her latest suicide charge. Marina stood half in shadow, face pale, boots caked with mud from the ridge she never should've been on. And Juno… Juno was trying to stitch together a disaster with orders and clipped reprimands, clinging to doctrine like it was a life preserver in a sea of chaos.

They were failing. All of them. But I was the one who gave the orders, and made the mission.

I thought I could build something from this. That maybe if I found four fighters who could survive alone, I could teach them to survive together. Mold them. Shape them. Like iron. But what do you do when the forge won't take the heat? When all you get for your effort is brittle steel and splinters?

Wendy's voice cracked through the fog. Something about spontaneity. Juno fired back with unit cohesion. Jane barked an insult. Marina tried to play the peacemaker, voice barely audible. It was just noise. All of it. Different flavors of the same failure.

And I hated how familiar it felt.

I hadn't said a word since the timer hit zero and the smoke bombs went off. I'd watched Jane go down in the first ten seconds, breaching without cover again. I saw the fireball lick the side of the mock barracks, courtesy of Wendy's pyromania. Juno flailing on comms, trying to herd cats with tactics from a textbook no one else was reading. Marina, off-mic, off-mission, eyes fixed on a threat that never came. And me? I just watched it happen.

Not once in three days had they completed an objective clean. Not once had they coordinated like a team. And if I'm being honest with myself, I wasn't even surprised anymore.

They were failing. But the failure was mine.

I should've known better. I should've seen this coming. I should've stepped in. Reined in Jane, channeled Wendy, given Juno room to breathe, drawn Marina back into the fold. I didn't. I just stood by, hoping repetition would teach what words couldn't. But repetition without guidance doesn't build cohesion. It just digs trenches between people. And mine were waist-deep already.

They didn't know. Couldn't see it on my face. I made sure of that. I kept my expression locked down, hard and unreadable. A wall they could lean on or bounce off of; whatever they needed. But inside? I was screaming.

The yelling stopped eventually. Maybe they noticed I hadn't moved. Maybe the smoke thinned just enough for them to remember I was there.

Four sets of eyes found me.

Wendy, chewing her lip and shifting from foot to foot. Juno, straight-backed but clearly bracing for a reprimand. Jane with her arms folded and chin up, but the fire had dulled in her eyes. Marina just looked tired. And I couldn't blame them. I was tired too. Tired of trying and failing. Tired of watching potential crumble into frustration. Tired of hearing the same damn argument play out again and again like we were stuck in a loop and I'd lost the key to break it.

I stepped forward. They stiffened instinctively. Not out of fear. Out of expectation. Like they knew what was coming.

But I didn't yell. What was the point? I didn't scold. They knew. Hell, they all knew.

I looked at each of them. Took my time.

Juno: all edge and order, trying to captain a ship that had no hull.

Wendy: fire incarnate, capable of brilliance but always one spark away from catastrophe.

Jane: guts and fury, no leash, no brake pedal.

Marina: ghostlike, precise and distant, never quite in sync.

Each of them is a perfect disaster.

"You're all dismissed for the day." I said, finally. Voice flat. No fire. Just the truth, bitter and dry in my throat. "Clean yourselves up."

That was all I could say.

Anything more and I wasn't sure what would come out.

I turned and walked away, boots crunching over spent casings and splintered wood. I didn't look back. I didn't have to. I could feel it, how the silence fell like a hammer behind me. No one said a word. No one moved. My silence weighed more than any shouted command ever could.

Let them stew in it.

Let me stew in it.

Because if this kept up, Command would pull the plug.  I knew as well as anybody that the only thing Command cared about was winning.  If we couldn't show that it would be my ass. It'd be all of ours. Because nobody tolerated a losing bet.

000

I sat across from Welkin and Faldio in the warm stillness of the command center, a wide, wood-paneled room that smelled faintly of old varnish, dust, and tobacco. The only light came from a shaded brass lamp above the central table, casting long shadows across the worn maps spread over its polished surface. Stacks of yellowing field reports and tactical manuals sat in tidy piles on nearby desks, and the tick of a wall-mounted clock echoed in the silence between words. The walls were lined with pinned-up campaign maps, troop movements marked in pencil or red wax pencil, faded at the edges. A rotary phone rested near a window, silent for now, and outside I could barely make out the rhythmic cadence of marching boots and the shouted drills of another unit. Inside, though, it was just the three of us, surrounded by the trappings of war bureaucracy, and the quiet weight of my own frustration

I peeled off my gloves, caked in dust, and laid them flat on the table. I didn't look up.

"It's falling apart," I said. My voice felt flat, heavy. "Three days in, and everything's a mess. Nothing's clicking. They're all skilled, I know they are, but the second we start a drill together, it just… disintegrates. It's disjointed. Dangerous."

Welkin leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. His brow furrowed, but not in judgment. He looked tired, same as me, but his eyes were sharp, curious. Faldio stood by the map board, arms crossed, saying nothing yet. Just listening.

"Walk me through it," Welkin said gently.

I took a breath, jaw tight. "Day one, Juno came in with everything prepped. She had the flow charted, fire lanes mapped, approach vectors timed down to the second. It should've worked. But Wendy got too excited during the second phase… set half the building on fire with a bad placement on the incendiary charges. Not once, but twice. The second time she nearly cooked a supply truck.  And me."

Welkin didn't interrupt, just nodded slowly.

I kept going. "Jane ran into a fortified position screaming like she was in a damn cavalry charge. Got herself mission-killed in under ten seconds. Again. She's got guts, no question, but no throttle. And Marina? She's vanishing on us before they even breach. Slips into some overwatch perch without calling it out, and they're left exposed down the center lane with no idea where she is or if she's even there."

I looked down at the table, flexing my fingers once, slowly. "It's not just a bad start. It's every day. They collapse on every single mission."

Faldio's voice cut in, calm and measured. "What have you been doing, if you don't mind my asking?  What answers are you looking for from us?"

I looked up, meeting his eyes. "I want to know how to fix it. How do I make them work as a team? I've tried discipline. Reinforcement. Encouragement. Direct control. Giving them autonomy. None of it's worked."

Welkin ran a hand through his hair, pausing for a moment before responding.

"What questions are you asking yourself, exactly?"

I frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I mean the core questions," he said, tapping a finger on the table. "Are you asking yourself, 'Why aren't they following orders?' Or are you asking, 'How can I lead them, given who they are?'"

That landed like a stone in my gut. I didn't flinch, didn't argue. I just nodded once, slowly, and let the words settle.

"I want them to be effective," I said. My voice was quiet but steady. "I want them to function like a real unit. Tight-knit. Cohesive. I want them to survive."

Faldio shifted his stance and crossed his arms. "But right now, you're trying to force that cohesion through your own perspective- your own instincts. That might be the problem."

He didn't say it unkindly. There was no accusation in his voice, just observation. Honest and clear.

"You're skilled.  Nobody is doubting that." he continued. "You operate like a scalpel. Precise. Focused. Decisive. But… they aren't you, Finch. And they don't have the instincts you do. You're pushing them toward something they're not built for.  Not yet, anyway."

I didn't argue. There was no point. He was right.

Welkin leaned back in his chair, his fingers laced together. "When Captain Varrot gave you this assignment… what did you think you were building?"

I looked down at the map. A dozen unit positions were marked across the valley in black ink, as fragile and deliberate as the plans I kept trying to impose on four completely different women.

 "A team," I said. "A lethal one. A spear that could be thrown into hell and be counted on to get the job done.  Because that's what they were asking for."

Welkin gave a small, thoughtful nod. "And did you choose them because they would mirror your methods, your abilities? Or because they wouldn't?"

"I… I picked them because they had skills, they had talent, they just… they were all outcasts, some of them by choice, some by attitude, but all of them had…"  Jerry struggled for the words, and Welkin gave him a winning smile.

"Because you saw something," Welkin said. "Something worth shaping."

I exhaled through my nose, quietly.

 "Maybe," I admitted. "Or maybe I was arrogant enough to think I could make them into something they're not."

Faldio uncrossed his arms and stepped closer to the table. "It's not arrogance. You've done things most of us would never dream of trying and still pulled off the win. You've got the experience. You've got the instincts. The drive and the will to survive. That's exactly why they gave you this task."

"But instincts don't transfer cleanly," Welkin added. "Not without time. And not without understanding who they are."

I didn't look up. My eyes stayed fixed on the map, tracing the paths our last failed drill had taken; disjointed, chaotic, wrong.

 "I know what they're capable of," I said. "Each of them. I've seen the sparks. The skill's there. But it's like trying to graft nerves together with a hammer and nails. I don't know how to make them sync. How to teach cohesion to people who recoil from it in opposite directions."

"Then stop trying to teach them your version of cohesion," Welkin said gently. "Start learning what theirs looks like."

That stopped me.

I opened my mouth, paused, then closed it.

Faldio chimed in. "Each of them has a specialty. Juno is precise, structured; she thrives with process and logistics. Wendy is chaotic, volatile, but her instincts with demolitions and traps are almost preternatural. Jane is aggression incarnate. She forces movement. She turns stalemates into advances. And Marina? She's a shadow. Quiet, watchful. A sniper with an honestly prodigious level of skill."

He uncrossed his arms, stepping closer to the table. "You didn't accidentally assemble a bunch of misfits. You picked them for those extremes. For the gaps they fill."

Welkin leaned in again. "What you're building isn't a Squad or a frontline unit. It's a strike team meant to operate in fluid, high-pressure environments. You're not assembling a chorus. You're tuning instruments for a jazz ensemble. They don't all need to play the same notes. But they do need to know when to come in, and how to listen to each other."

I let that sink in.

"So my mistake was trying to teach them how to march," I muttered. "When I should have been teaching them how to move."

Faldio gave a short nod. "Exactly. You're not the conductor of a parade. You're the one choosing which weapon fires first and when."

Welkin smiled, tired but sincere. "Try this: instead of demanding strict synchronized movements, build lessons that let them express their strengths. Get them to listen to the process as much as they do the parade.  Wendy is, quite frankly, a master of ordinance.  Juno is an expert tactician.  Marina is, quite frankly, brilliant when it comes to stealth and hiding and Jane knows how to fight mean and fight dirty when everything else has gone to hell.  Take advantage of these things, and more than that, have them take advantage of it.  You'll be surprised what a little back and forth will get you.

I exhaled, the pressure in my chest giving just a little.

"And stop trying to scrub them clean," Welkin said. "You're not here to erase their flaws. You're here to guide them. Rein them in when they go too far, yes, but you don't tame a wildfire by shouting at it. You dig the trench, and let it burn in the right direction."

There was silence for a moment. I looked down at my hands… aching in the spring heat, the gloves covering callused fingers.

"I boxed them," I said quietly. "Barely three days in, and I've been forcing them into my idea of a team, instead of working with what they are."

Welkin reached out and clapped a firm hand on my shoulder. "Correction, not failure. You came here because you saw the cracks forming. That's not a weakness, Jerry. That's leadership."

Faldio gave me a faint smile. "And now comes the real test: can you shift your own thinking? Can you lead a team that doesn't move like you, or fight like you, but still wins?"

I met his gaze and gave a small, grim nod. "I can. I have to."

"Then we've got your back," Welkin said. "We'll help you design better lessons. Role-based, individual, to help you build them up. I'll talk to Captain Varrot about getting you more demolition dummies and getting you access to R&D and the motor pool.  Maybe give your team a few more options to pull from to let them specialize a bit more."

Faldio turned toward the board. "I'll help you draft the lesson plans. Let's work from their real strengths, not their theoretical ones.  Start where they're strongest and use that to shore up their weaknesses.  And maybe let them teach you a few things too.  Valkyrur knows you could stand to learn how to file your paperwork better from Juno."  The man chuckled, and Jerry could only give a helpless shrug.

For the first time in days, something let go inside my chest. Not the whole burden. But enough.

I stood, nodded once, and said, "Then the new plan starts tomorrow. No more trying to make them into copies of me.  No more dry runs, no more simulations.  Back to basics."

Welkin smiled. "Good. They're not meant to be you. They're meant to fight with you.  To fight beside you, and in the end, learn to survive like you."

He said it with such conviction that I thought maybe I might even believe him.

000

The air had that stillness you only get before something breaks. Cold, clean, sharp like the edge of a razor. The kind of morning that makes you feel like the world itself is holding its breath, waiting. The dew clung to the grass underfoot, catching pale light in quiet glints. Overhead, the sky was a wan, tired blue. No clouds. No noise. Just space. And maybe that was fitting. Emptiness, waiting to be filled.

I spotted them before they noticed me. The girls were gathered near the old pillbox ruins; half-collapsed concrete and rusted rebar marking the edge of the training field. It had become their default rally point over the past few weeks. I hadn't told them to be there this early. Didn't have to. They knew something was coming.

They looked like soldiers. Frayed, unfinished soldiers with too many sharp angles and no cohesion; but soldiers just the same. That counted for something.

Juno stood ramrod straight, trying to look composed. Her fingers betrayed her though, tugging methodically at the hem of her jacket, smoothing and folding the fabric with nervous precision. Jane was all posture and tension, arms crossed, legs planted, chin tilted like she was daring someone to give her bad news. But beneath that defiance, her eyes flicked toward the others. She wasn't angry. Just… bracing.

Wendy practically vibrated, hands stuffed in her bomber jacket like they might fly off if she let them out. She bounced on her toes like she couldn't decide if she was cold or just terrified. Probably both. Marina stood a step apart from the others, still and unreadable. Her arms were loose at her sides, but her jaw was tight, eyes locked straight ahead, a little too steady.

They were waiting for me to unload on them. A lecture, maybe. A final dressing-down before I cut the cord.

I let them sit in it for a second longer. Let the silence stretch. Let myself gather my strength, to let my voice be heard.

Then I stepped forward, boots crunching over gravel like distant gunfire. Sharp. Deliberate.

I wasn't in uniform. Just combat fatigues, my old blue t-shirt felt tight under a field jacket, my hair combed into some semblance of order, best I could get it. The belt around my waist was tight, my boots polished. Not because I gave a damn about formality, but because control starts at the surface, even when the inside's coming apart. Maybe especially then.

They snapped to attention the second I entered their line of sight. All of them. Even Jane, who'd spent the last two weeks refusing to salute even the drill instructors, god help her.

I stopped in front of them. Close enough to feel their unease.

I took a breath. One of those slow, deep ones that scrapes a little on the way in.  My chest still ached from the little accident Cheslock almost sent me flying with, but the sting was welcome.

They were expecting fire. Or ice. Something final. What they got was neither.

"You're here because I failed you."

The words dropped between us like a stone. Flat. Measured. No anger. No blame. Just truth. Real truth; cleaner than the air around us.

The ripple hit them almost at once. Jane blinked, just once, her crossed arms lowering slightly. Wendy stopped bouncing. Juno's fingers froze mid-fold. Marina didn't move, but I saw her shoulders shift just a fraction, like someone bracing for impact and not getting it.

"I've been training you like line infantry," I said. "Like you're supposed to fall into step, march in time, do the job by the numbers. But that's not what this is. That's not who you are. That's not why you were chosen."

I made sure to meet their eyes, one by one. Wendy. Jane. Marina. Juno. Held each stare for a heartbeat longer than I needed to.

"This assignment came down from Captain Varrot from those above her.  How high, I can't say, but someone was very interested in making this happen. They wanted to see if I could make something out of a group that doesn't fit. They wanted to know if I could build soldiers to do what I've done. A team that could operate outside the lines. Fight in the gray. Thrive where doctrine falls apart."

I let my hands fold behind my back. Familiar. Safe. Controlled.

"I said yes. Not because I thought it would be easy. or because I wanted a notch on my belt, no. Truth be told I never thought of myself fit for command. But I said yes anyway. I said yes because I thought it mattered. Because I thought maybe… maybe I could make a difference doing this."

Wendy's shoulders hunched inward slightly, shrinking into her jacket. She looked suddenly small, like a kid wearing someone else's gear. Jane's mouth had a hard line to it, but she was listening. Really listening. Marina's stare hadn't wavered, but I could tell the gears were turning. Juno looked like she was holding her breath.

"I picked each of you because you don't belong in the normal boxes. Because you're all misfits. Specialists moving in the wrong directions. And I thought I could shape that into something new. Something dangerous. Something lethal and efficient.  Something elite."

I paused. Let the weight of it settle. Then I said it.

"But instead, I tried to make you into me."

That got them. Jane shifted her stance. Wendy looked up sharply. Juno blinked. Marina's fingers twitched at her side, just once.

"And that was a mistake."

The wind stirred again, a low rustle in the grass behind us. I let it carry the pause before continuing.

"You've all been failing. That's true. But it's only half the truth. The bigger failure was mine. I set you up to break. I treated you like what I thought you should be instead of what you are: a fireteam of irregulars. Independent. Asymmetric. Each of you, dangerous in your own way."

I stepped forward, slow.

"You've struggled in these mock missions because they weren't made for you, not really. I wanted cohesion from friction. Discipline from chaos. But I never taught you how to move like I do. I never gave you the instincts. The calculus. The why."

I let the next breath out slowly, carefully.

"And I can't promise I can teach all of it. Some of it you have to live. But I can promise I'm done blaming you for failing a system you were never meant to succeed in."

They didn't speak. Didn't twitch. Even Jane looked like she'd swallowed something bitter and didn't know what to do with it.

"So here's what happens now."

I raised my chin.

"This program changes. Right now. No more empty drills. No more hollow training ops. From now on, we will live together. Train together. Eat, sleep, bleed, and fight together. You'll learn each other's rhythms. Your tells. Your limits."  I paused, staring into the fire, before meeting their eyes again.  "You will learn from one another. See each other fail, yes, but also see each other succeed, and through it all we will master this. Together."

I pointed at each of them as I spoke, sharp and deliberate.

"Wendy… you're a demolitionist with a gifted insight into bomb making. I've seen you make explosive masterpieces that can just as easily shred a tank as cave a building in two. But you've never learned restraint, never learned when to set off the bomb, or how to direct the blast to where it matters. That changes."

Her mouth twitched like she wanted to joke, but thought better of it.

"Jane, you're a hammer built for war. You charge in without fear, but you fight like you're alone.  You have the fire that would set the world ablaze but you don't know how to temper it so that you don't get burned. That ends today."

She didn't flinch, but something about the defiance in her eyes softened. Barely.

"Marina. You disappear better than anyone I've ever seen.  You move like the shadows through the woods and you do it so well you sometimes forget to come back. But you leave your allies hanging in the breeze when you do it. You don't know how to communicate, to follow the flow of the fight, to be there when you're most needed. But you will be, now."

She didn't respond. Didn't blink. But I saw it, saw her shift, ever so slightly in her posture, her frown no longer just annoyed.  Now, it was introspective.

"And Juno…"

She was already staring at me, jaw tight, posture rigid as ever.

"You think in tactics like they're burned into your bones. But you don't know how to bend. You have a gifted mind for seeing the big picture, and all the pieces in it, but you struggle with chaos, with disorder, and the battlefield is anything but. It's time for you to learn how to lean into the storm, instead of breaking on it."

I dropped my hand and let the air settle.

"And I'll teach you the rest. What isn't in manuals. How to think in the dirt. How to feel a kill zone. How to plan in silence and move with purpose. How to kill fast… and walk away alive."

No one moved.

"This will be the hardest thing you've ever done. You don't have to do it."

My voice dropped low. Level.

"If you want out, I'll sign the papers myself. You'll be reassigned back to your former units with a commendation from me for having taken part. No shame, no dishonor, just one more program that didn't fit. You've got until tomorrow morning to decide."

I turned, coward that I was.  I didn't want to see their faces, see the recriminations in their eyes.

"But if you stay… you're going to bleed for this. And if you survive it, maybe you'll become something even I couldn't have imagined when we first got started."

I started walking. One step, then two.

"Make your choice."

The third step had just hit when I heard it behind me.

"I'm staying."

Juno's voice. Tight. Controlled. Shaking just a little at the edges.

I stopped. Turned halfway. She wasn't looking at me; just ahead, fists clenched at her sides like a cadet on inspection.  But in her stance was something I hadn't seen in all the weeks we'd been working together. There was grit, yes, and determination, but also something new.  Shame, maybe.  And a bit of realization.

"I've been letting you down," she said. "All of you. Running playbooks like it still means something. Like there's still a rulebook that applies. Following rote doctrine like it would make any kind of difference outside in the real world. But I need… I need to learn better, be better. I'm not giving up. Not now, when things are just getting hard."

She meant it. I could hear it.

A second passed.

Jane snorted, loud and crass, her arms crossed and her trademark scowl etched on her face.

"Oh hell no. Stick-up-her-ass isn't leaving me behind. I'm in too. Somebody's gotta keep her from saluting the damn trees."

Wendy laughed. A high, nervous sound, but it was real.

"Where else am I gonna get to blow things up without getting court-martialed? I'm in."

All eyes turned to Marina.

She didn't look at them. Just watched me. Her face was blank. Then her gaze dropped to her boots. One beat. Two. Then she nodded. Once.

That was enough.

I turned to face them, and let the moment stretch.

Then I gave the only order that mattered.

"Fall in."

And for the first time, they did.

000

It took the better part of the day to get everything moved.

The barracks were clean and efficient, built to house the uniform, the predictable. They weren't for people like us. Not anymore. So I had them pack up and shift out to a patch of forest just east of the logistics depot, a clearing deep enough to be out of sight but close enough to the perimeter that we weren't completely out of reach. It was far enough to feel the separation though. That was the point. A physical wedge between them and the rest of the army. A reminder that they weren't rank and file. Not anymore.

I set up a few canvas tents, the older surplus models, each one stained and sun-faded, patched in places.  They were good, if dated, but we only used one for living quarters. It would've been easier to split them up, more comfortable. But easy wasn't the point either.  The other two were for storage and planning.  The idea was to keep the camp lean, and lean it was.

The tent was meant for three. Maybe four, in a pinch. With five of us inside, it felt more like a coffin than a barracks. Sleeping bags lined up in a tight semicircle around the interior. A small ragnite lantern hung from the center pole, casting a flickering blue-white light that clung to everything like sweat.

The only concession to rank I gave myself was a short curtain tied between the pole and my mat, enough for privacy but not separation. Even so, it felt indulgent, but also necessary, the only nod that I could give them in light of their gender. None of them said it, but I think they appreciated the gesture.

Each of them brought something with them; pieces of themselves, the parts that made them human beyond the uniform.

Wendy's gear exploded across her corner like an IED mid-assembly. Machine parts in oily cloth wraps. Loose vials with faded labels. Chemical notebooks scrawled in handwriting even she couldn't always decipher. I could already see the first small stain forming near her bedroll where something corrosive must've leaked. And tucked behind all that chaos, a neatly folded white armband with the markings of a Medic.  She didn't bring it up, and we didn't ask, but there was a story behind it, I was sure.

Jane's corner was more martial. Ammo boxes stacked neatly next to her sleeping bag, each labeled in big black permanent marker. Car magazines shoved haphazardly under her bedroll. A gun rack she cobbled together out of a weapons crate lid and some salvaged metal, holding her rifle, her sidearm, and an entrenchment tool who's blade was honed to a razor's edge. Everything about her screamed action, but there was a neatness to it. Not clean, but deliberate.

Marina's space was quiet. Not just in sound, but in presence. A camo net hung over her bed like a canopy, low enough that it blended her entire area into the tent wall. In the center of it all, a single potted fern. Nothing flashy. Just green. Living. She tended to it each morning in silence. An odd addition for the girl.  She was allergic to it, just slightly. She always seemed a little congested when she woke.

Juno's belongings looked more like an annex of headquarters. A small bookshelf that she must've built herself stood by her mat, crammed full with infantry manuals, field guides, codebooks, even a few ancient officer's handbooks that were more ideal than applicable. Her uniform was always spotless. Her boots polished to a regulation shine. She made her bedroll tighter than necessary, a square you could bounce a quarter off of.

And then there was me.

My side of the tent was bare compared to theirs. I had my MOLL-E vest, laid out on a low wood crate I'd turned into a makeshift gear shelf. My StG-44 rested in a hand-carved rack just behind it, cleaned and oiled to perfection. My pistol was holstered in its place beside my mat. A whetstone, a roll of gauze, two small ration tins, and a pair of binoculars rounded it out. No photos. No keepsakes. No books. Just tools and gear, the map, the few bits of miscellaneous kit that made its way into the pockets of my vest, and weapons. It was honestly kind of sad.

The tent smelled of gun oil, sweat, and damp earth. Already, Jane was grumbling about the lack of airflow, and Wendy had tried to "improve ventilation" with a box fan she cobbled together from scrap and a hand crank. It only made the humidity worse. Marina stayed silent, her expression unreadable as she adjusted the netting around her bunk, while Juno tried and failed to press wrinkles out of her spare shirt.

But it wasn't the heat or the space that rattled them. It was the latrine.

The moment they realized there was no proper bathroom anymore, all four of them balked. Marina, who was a font of bush and camping knowledge, was the one who handled it. Dug a pit herself and quietly explained how to use it without risking disease or shame. Wendy almost cried. Jane gagged. Juno said nothing but spent fifteen minutes scrubbing her hands afterward with rubbing alcohol.

I told them flatly: get used to it. This was the new normal.

Once I was satisfied they were as settled as they were going to get, I left camp behind and headed toward the motor pool.

Welkin had come through for me, true to his word, he'd secured access to the field factory and machine shop buried beneath a squat concrete building near the base's vehicle depot. It was half-sunken into the earth, reinforced with rebar and old steel plates, an architectural relic that felt more like a wartime bunker than a workshop. The moment I stepped inside, I was met with the sharp scent of metal shavings, oil, hot solder, and old smoke; the unmistakable perfume of machinery being pushed to its limits.

Inside, two figures stood waiting.  Leon Schmidt, the motor pool's grease-streaked wunderkind, and Kreis Czherny, his tall and taciturn partner. Leon spotted me first, and his reaction was immediate.

"Holy hell… Sergeant Finch." His eyes went wide. "Wait, no- The Lion of Bruhl?" He stepped forward, extending his hand with the energy of a puppy who'd just seen his favorite chew toy walk in on two legs. "Man, this is crazy. I've read all the reports. The battle at Bruhl?  The last stand at the gates?  The ambush outside of Dillburg?  I heard you were kicking Imp ass up and down the front!  It's an honor!"

I stared at his hand for a beat before finally shaking it. "It's… nice to meet you."

"Still," he said, not missing a beat. "You're a legend around here."

"I'm a soldier. Same as you."

Leon opened his mouth, probably to argue the point, but Kreis cleared his throat gently and stepped in with the social grace his partner lacked.

"You'll have to forgive Leon," Kreis said with a tired smile. "He reads every action report that crosses his desk. Getting to meet the Lion in the flesh is sort of like seeing a walking tall tale."

"I'm nothing special.  Really." I muttered.

Leon grinned but stayed quiet.

"Either way, I'm here on business.  I assume Welkin told you I was coming?" I asked, cutting through the haze of hero worship.  Leon got serious real fast, giving me a firm nod. "Good.  I need gear. Four new weapons. Not Gallian issue. Same specs as my own."

Kreis lifted an eyebrow. "Same model as your current rifle?"

I nodded. "StG-44. Fires 7.92x33 Kurz. You won't find blueprints for it in any Gallian quartermaster's guide. But the ammo's not the problem. I've seen crates of Kurz in three different supply dumps. What I need is four rifles that can chamber it reliably and match the handling profile of mine."

The two mechanics exchanged glances. Kreis looked thoughtful. Leon looked like he'd just been handed a gift-wrapped mystery.

"Okay," Leon said, rubbing his palms together, already imagining the engineering challenges. "The cartridge is short and fat. Our standard long-stroke pistons won't handle the cycling properly without a redesign. Bolt group's totally different. Receiver geometry, too."

"But," Kreis added, "we might be able to approximate it. Not replicate it, exactly, but we can build something structurally similar. It won't be perfect, but it will match the performance of your original rifle.  There shouldn't be a problem getting it to feed the Kurz rounds, and it'll hold up in the field."

"Good.  Very good," I said.

Leon was already pacing in a small circle, running mental blueprints through his head. "The magwell's gonna be the trickiest part. Might have to fabricate a custom lower, maybe weld in a spacer block if we adapt Gallian parts-"

Kreis cleared his throat again.

"Focus," he said.

Leon blinked, then nodded sheepishly.

"Right," Kreis continued. "It'll take time. We've got two light tanks in for overhaul, and the 7th's APC needs a new tread and differential."

"How long?" I asked.

Kreis looked at Leon. Leon shrugged. "Two weeks minimum. Three if we run into machining delays."

"That's acceptable," I said. "The other thing I need is a set of plate carriers. Nothing fancy. Just durable, functional, and modular. Something that fits tightly and won't shift when you're crawling through the dirt.

"I'll have to see what we can do but we aren't tailors." Leon asked, glancing toward a stack of materials.

"It needs to be sturdy and follow the same basic design.  It doesn't need to be fancy."

Kreis nodded. "We can make something out of repurposed canvas, steel, and leather. Might be heavier than what you're used to but-"

"They'll get used to it," I said.

Leon gave a sharp nod. "Four copies?"

"Correct. Rough analogs to what I use now. Focus on usability, not aesthetics."

The two men exchanged another glance, and this time Kreis looked more confident.

"We can make that work," he said. "Same delivery window. Two to three weeks. But we'll need you to let us study your vest. Drape it over the drafting table, take some measurements, that sort of thing."

"You'll have it by morning."

I turned to leave, but then paused.

"There's one more thing."

Leon cocked his head, already excited again. "Yeah?"

"Are you able to fabricate custom parts and modifications for weapons?" I stepped back toward the tool wall and looked at the bench, where tools hung like surgical instruments, waiting to cut steel and bring form to thought. "I need the barrels on all the rifles modified.  The pistols too, mine included, and something else added onto the list."

"Like what?" Kreis asked, cautious.

"Something useful.  Something quiet." I said. "A piece of kit based on something I've seen before."

Leon frowned. "Like a weapon?"

"An addition.  And a reminder, for what we do."

The room grew still.

I could feel their curiosity, but neither pressed.

"We'll need specs," Kreis said finally. "And diagrams, if possible."

"I'll bring them when I come by tomorrow."

Leon gave a sharp nod, smile returning. "We'll build it. Whatever it is."

I nodded once and stepped back into the early evening air.

The walk back to the tent was long, but not lonely. The forest was beginning to settle into its twilight rhythm; birds chirping their last songs, bugs starting their night shifts. A distant bark of laughter cracked through the air. Wendy, probably. Jane's voice chased it, sharp and annoyed. I caught a flash of movement near the trees. Marina watching. Juno was probably sitting near the tent, rereading some obscure manual by lantern light.

They were all still here.

Still committed.

They'd chosen to stay.

And for the first time since this whole mess started, I felt the tension in my chest loosen just slightly. Not because I thought we were suddenly going to become a perfect team. We weren't. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

But they weren't running.

And I wasn't giving up.

That counted for something.

Tomorrow, the real training would begin. No more drills. No more theory. No more pretending. From this point forward, everything we did was going to matter.

Because I wasn't just building soldiers.

I was building shadows.

And if we were going to survive the coming storm, they'd need to be sharper, faster, and colder than anything the Empire could throw at us.

One step at a time.