Days Gone By Chapter 5

…the days following the escape from Dillburg were spent in quiet contemplation.  We'd all suffered to get to this point, each and every one of us.  Sacrificed.  Bled.  Wept.  But the war didn't care about any of that.  Every man or woman who came aboard those trains carried stories of an Imperial blitz that tore across the reaches of northern Gallia.  Word of atrocities both big and small, of mass executions for the lucky ones.  Slavery and depredation for the rest.  The Empire wasn't shy about how they intended to persecute this war, so long as there wasn't a man, woman or child willing to stand against them at the end of it.

-Ch. 1: Red Skies, Days Gone By, A Memoir From the Gallian Front

Chapter Five

I'd started counting the cracks in the ceiling above my cot. Twenty-three. Not counting the ones near the air duct… those weren't really cracks, just shoddy Gallian plasterwork trying to pass for military standard. The barracks were quiet at this hour, the kind of silence that feels like it's waiting to pounce. A few bunks down, someone coughed in their sleep. Probably Nils again.  Poor bastard caught trench lung back in '24 and it never really let him go. That, or he was allergic to everything, including discipline.

Me? I had my own room. They said it was an honor.

It didn't feel like one.

The space was barely bigger than a janitor's closet. The walls were the color of wet cigarette ash, the mattress too thin, the blanket scratchy like sandpaper against skin. But it had a door, and that meant solitude. Privacy. Isolation. It meant silence… and it meant staring at the ceiling until the thoughts in my head got too loud to ignore.

I hadn't seen Welkin, Alicia, or Isara since the day we arrived in Dillburg. We were split up like livestock in a sorting pen, some to artillery, some to recon, the rest to the meat grinder. The Gallian Army called it intake. I called it being filed away like a piece of gear. My assignment came with salutes and whispers, wide-eyed stares from people who didn't know me but knew the title.

The Lion of Bruhl.

What a goddamn joke.

I wasn't a lion. I was just a guy with a rifle, a bad haircut, and just enough training not to get myself killed. But stories spread like oil on water. The ambush. The half-tracks. The blood. They turned it into legend before I even had a chance to wash my hands clean.

Not that the blood ever really came off.

The only thing that kept me from clawing at the walls was the daily rhythm of getting screamed at. Senior Drill Instructor Calvaro Rodriguez; a tower of a man with a voice like broken gravel and an eyepatch that looked like it belonged on a flagpole. Blue-white-blue stripes, thin red trim. The colors of Gallia, stitched right into his face.

He was missing his left eye, and when he looked at you with the right one, it felt like he saw everything you tried to hide. Every doubt. Every ugly memory.

He called me "Private Lion." Not "Mercenary". Not "Recruit." Just that. Every time. I think it was his way of humbling me. If it was, I didn't mind. Felt better than the hushed awe everyone else whispered when they thought I couldn't hear.

Rodriguez had us running drills daily, rain or shine. Mostly shine.  Spring here was brutal. By noon, the dirt turned to dust, clinging to your sweat, getting in your teeth. Every drill felt like a fever dream. Rifle training. Bayonet. Urban combat simulations in the skeletons of buildings they kept around for realism. I didn't hate it. It gave me something to do. Something to keep the silence at bay.

What bothered me more were the people around me.

Too young. Too old. I saw a kid with braces in the next squad over, barely seventeen by the look of him. Saw a woman whose hands shook when she loaded her rifle, age or fear, maybe both. War was chewing through Gallia faster than anyone expected. They weren't picky about who they fed to it.

And then there were the Darcsen.

Most folks pretended not to see the way they were treated. Pale skin. Lavender eyes. Black hair that shimmered like oil under the sun. You'd think they were carved from moonlight. The Empire didn't see people when they looked at them.  They saw pests. Vermin. Every train brought more horror stories: whole Darcsen villages erased, children forced into labor, entire communities shoved into ghettos and left to rot.

We'd heard rumors on the train from Dillburg. Whispers of massacres. Men crucified on barn doors. Women taken. Kids vanished. The word culling came up more than once and no one wanted to ask what that really meant.

It left a sour taste in my mouth. The kind that lingered, clinging to the back of your throat like smoke.

I kept my head down in camp. Not because I had something to hide; more because I didn't know where I fit. I wasn't a conscript. I wasn't a native. I wasn't even sure if I was technically real in this world. Just some guy who got dumped here by the universe and shoved into a war he barely understood.

But I moved well. Shot straight. Followed orders.

That was enough, apparently.

Rodriguez barked at me like he barked at everyone else, but I noticed he never corrected me much. Just watched. Like he was waiting to see if I'd crack. Maybe he'd seen too many like me.   Men who came back from the front too quiet, too still, too good at what they did. Or maybe he just knew.

That the silence was louder than the gunfire.

Nights were the worst. No drills. No shouting. Just me, the walls, and the ghosts.

I tried not to think about the ambush. About the machine gun's heat. The way it kicked like a living thing. The blood that sprayed across my face. How I'd sat there afterward, not shaking, not crying… just… sitting.

That was what scared me the most.

That it didn't scare me anymore.

I stared at the ceiling a lot. Thought about Noce and Juliette more than I wanted to. Two kids with dirt in their smiles and hope in their eyes. And now? Gone. Torn apart by Imperial steel. Reduced to memory. I'd watched the light go out of people's eyes. More than once. I'd pulled the trigger. Felt the knife slip in. Heard the gurgling as life leaked out of men who never saw me coming.

They called it heroism.

I called it surviving.

Sometimes, I wondered if there was even a difference.

The door creaked as I leaned back on the cot, boots still laced. I didn't undress much these days. Didn't feel right. The moment you got comfortable was the moment you weren't ready. And I couldn't afford that.

A train horn howled in the distance, low and long, echoing across the yard. Another convoy heading east. Toward the front. Randgriz, maybe. Maybe further. Rodriguez had hinted we'd be deployed soon. That we were too valuable to sit idle much longer.

Part of me wanted to go. Not for glory. Not for payback. Just… to do something. Something that made the quiet go away.

My hand drifted to the chain around my neck. I tugged it free from under the collar. Dog tags.  Standard Gallian issue, freshly stamped, still too clean.

 Name: Finch, Jericho.

 Blood Type: O-.

 Serial: 857-3224-G.

Issued to a man who hadn't existed two weeks ago.

Two weeks. That's all it had been since I stumbled through the fire and smoke of Bruhl. Since I clawed my way out of another world and into this one. The old me… the one with a name back home, with a job, a phone, a couch and a library of dog-eared paperbacks?  He didn't exist here. Only Jericho Finch did. The Lion of Bruhl. A ghost in a borrowed uniform.

I stared at the tags like they were supposed to prove I was real.

They didn't.

A knock came at the door. Sharp. Precise.

"Private Lion," barked the familiar voice of Rodriguez.

I sat up and opened the door. There he was- coat draped like a curtain over his frame, that same unimpressed stare locked onto me like a hunter's gaze. His thin mustache and flared mutton chops somehow made him look even more severe.

He didn't speak at first. Just looked at me with that one good eye, heavy as a hammer. Then, finally:

"Someone up the line thinks you're important."

"Do they now," I muttered, more to myself than to him.

Rodriguez ignored it.

He didn't smile- Rodriguez never smiled. "Runner came with orders. You're to report to Captain Eleanor Varrot. Immediately."

That name cut through the fog. Everyone knew it. Veteran of the First Europa War. Captain with more steel than most generals. Ran her units tight but fair. Some said she kept a library in her quarters, full of everything from tawdry fiction to military charters. Others swore she once tore strips off an armchair general for tying up medical supplies at a border outpost. She had a reputation.  The kind that came with the unspoken rule: Don't fuck with her. Because if she didn't finish the job, the people under her would.

A rare compliment, I was learning, among command.

I nodded. "Understood."

Rodriguez didn't move. Just gave a slow nod, then turned, coat flapping like the tail of a tired beast. But then, something odd happened. He paused. Turned slightly. Met my eyes.

"Watch yourself out there, Private Lion. People like you... sometimes it's not the enemy they gotta worry about."

That was all he said before he vanished down the corridor.

As I shut the door, I looked at the tags again.

Jericho Finch.

Someone thought that name mattered now.

I wasn't sure how I felt about that.

The walk through camp didn't take long. There was nothing in my way. I was already dressed, already awake, already resigned. The kind of clarity that only comes after too little sleep and too much reality. Boots met dirt with practiced rhythm, steady as a metronome. No chatter, no noise in my head, just the dull thud of each step and the low hum of a camp gearing up for another day of war.

The training yards were alive. Constant motion, constant noise. Recruits barked and ran, lines of fifty or more, working drills like they were being molded out of wet clay, shaped by screaming sergeants and wooden rifles. Veterans intermingled here and there, their movements more efficient, less desperate. Still sharpening iron on iron. A few glanced at me as I passed, but most were too deep in the moment. Either they didn't recognize me, or they didn't care.

Rodriguez had it right. This war wasn't slowing down. Gallia was bleeding people out faster than it could train new ones. Fresh recruits were fed into the grinder, hoping they'd last long enough to be considered experienced. Most didn't. That was the quiet truth buried beneath the sound of cadence and shouted orders.

Past the yards stood the officer quarter; well-maintained, white-plastered apartments with painted blue shutters and fresh gravel paths. The buildings sat smug under the rising sun, framed by white canvas mess tents and military flags fluttering on poles. These weren't bunkhouses; they were homes, temporary or not. They had working lights, hot water, glass windows. The smell of fresh bread and brewed coffee drifted faintly from somewhere in the back, a luxury the frontlines never saw.

Here was the domain of the elite.  Gallian officers, noble-born tacticians, and the few units too important or too green to be thrown into the fire just yet. I didn't belong here. But that's where I was headed.

Off to the left, the tank yards caught my eye. Rows upon rows of compact Gallian armor. Treaded, single-barrel beasts gleaming under maintenance crews. Each one polished like a parade trophy. Armor smooth as glass, their white-and-blue coats unmarred by mud or soot. Every one bore the silver unicorn insignia.  A myth painted over steel, as if it made them noble instead of efficient killers. I paused near one and caught my own warped reflection in the plating. A blank, ghostly figure beneath Gallia's painted ideals.

Headquarters loomed just ahead. The building didn't look like the others; more a fortress than a barracks. Not in size or shape, but in function. Paper walls filled with authority. Orders were given here. People were sent to die from behind these doors. I stepped inside and was met with low murmurs, booted footsteps echoing across tile, and the rustle of papers exchanged by stone-faced officers and overworked clerks. The rhythm of organized war.

Captain Varrot's office wasn't far. The door was already open, which meant I wasn't early. Or this wasn't just for me.

Inside, the room felt stiffer than usual. Alicia stood to the side of the desk, posture crisp, hands clasped behind her back. Her uniform looked freshly pressed, the brass on her collar catching the morning light. But her eyes met mine briefly, and something softened. A flicker… not guilt, not sympathy. Just recognition. Like we'd both seen the same monster last night.

Welkin stood beside her. Same disheveled hair, same calm exterior. His cap tucked under one arm. There was fatigue behind his eyes, but also something else- intent. Regret, maybe. Or purpose. The kind of thing that lives in the corners of a man who's made a call and knows he'll have to live with it.

The third figure was unfamiliar.  Lean build, sharp profile, brown hair swept back in an effortless cut. His uniform was tailored, crisp in a way that said he wasn't fresh out of boot. The way he stood, relaxed but attentive, told me he didn't need to impress anyone in the room. Confidence without ego. The academic kind.

Welkin gestured toward him. "Faldio Landzaat," he said. "We studied together in our University days.  I went into biology, he went into archaeology."

I raised an eyebrow. "Guess someone has to dig up the bones after we're done making them."

Faldio let out a dry laugh. "Let's hope it doesn't come to that." His tone was light, but his eyes flicked to me with curiosity- not judgment, just a quiet kind of appraisal.

And then there was Captain Varrot.

She stood behind her desk like it was a battlement, arms folded behind her back. Her posture was effortless, but deliberate. Still as a statue carved from ice.

"Jericho Finch," she said. Her tone was precise. "Irregular. Volunteer. Non-native."

I came to parade rest automatically. "Ma'am."

"You've been requested," she continued. "At the recommendation of Lieutenant Gunther, you are to be officially attached to Squad Seven. Effective immediately."

I glanced at Alicia. Her posture didn't change, but her gaze did, a faint shift, from firm to... unsure. Her voice followed.

"It's not a trick, Jerry," she said softly. "It's just... you've already been fighting beside us. This just makes it real."

I looked at her longer than I meant to. She wasn't trying to sell me anything. There was no recruitment pitch in her voice, just a quiet truth she was still trying to believe in herself.

Varrot continued. "You are also being conferred the rank of Sergeant. Equivalent in standing to Sergeant Melchiott."

That caught me. "That... seems generous."

"It wasn't my decision," she said coolly. "The order came from Command. The same Command that approved your continued presence in our military despite your... unorthodox background."

Her eyes met mine, not with contempt, but inquiry. She was still trying to figure me out. Weighing risk against reward.

"There's more," she added, picking up a folder from her desk. "You are being granted limited authority to form a fireteam. Four soldiers. Chosen from a pool of available applicants. You'll train them. Lead them. Deploy them under Squad Seven's umbrella."

I didn't say anything. I just stared.

Welkin stepped in again, tone earnest but firm. "Because you've already done it, Jerry. Bruhl wasn't just surviving. You saved lives. Mine. Alicia's. Civilians. You didn't freeze when the tank rolled in. You didn't panic when that machine gun opened up. You moved, you acted, you chose."

I swallowed hard. My hands were clenched behind my back and I hadn't even noticed.

"I didn't do it for you," I muttered.

"I know," Welkin said. "That's what makes it count. You did it because someone had to. That's what leaders do. Even when no one's looking."

I shook my head. "I'm not a leader. I'm just good at staying alive."

"No," Alicia said, and her voice was clearer now, less hesitant. "You're good at pulling others with you. That's the difference."

I glanced at her. She offered a faint smile- nothing overplayed. Just the kind of smile you give someone who doesn't know how visible they've become.

"You're stronger than you think," Welkin added. "You stood up again and again when most would've stayed down. That doesn't make you perfect, it makes you present. I need people like that."

"And you're letting this happen?" I asked Varrot, dragging my eyes away from them both.

She didn't blink. "I am. Because you've been excelling in every facet of your training. Marksmanship. Decision-making. Tactical improvisation. Even Rodriguez wrote a positive report. And he's never written one in his life."

My brow furrowed. "That... can't be right. I've barely kept my head down. I-"

"Numbers don't lie," she interrupted. "And neither do the outcomes. You're not unnoticed, Finch. You're outperforming nearly every soldier in your weight class and often under stress conditions that would break most people."

That made my stomach twist. Being good at this… at war… didn't feel like an accomplishment. It felt like a stain.

Before I could bury that thought, Welkin cut in again. "Juno Coren wants to help. She's volunteered to support the fireteam. She trusts you. You earned that."

Alicia nodded. "She saw what you did in Bruhl. She thinks you're someone worth following."

That made me scoff quietly. "They're going to regret that."

"No," Alicia said, voice quieter now. "You might. But they won't."

There was a beat of silence. Long enough for the air to feel heavy.

I exhaled, slow. My voice came out flat. "And if I say no?"

Varrot didn't flinch. "Then you remain as-is. Attached to Squad Seven. No leadership. No fireteam. You'll fight where we tell you, when we tell you. But this?" she tapped the folder, "This gives you a chance to leave something behind. Not just blood and bodies."

"Leave a mark," I said, more to myself than to her.

"Yes," Varrot replied. "One of your choosing."

I looked at Alicia. She didn't push. Just nodded, steady, warm in a way that didn't require words.

Then Welkin, who met my eyes without blinking. No command in them. Just trust.

And that made it worse somehow.

I let out the breath I didn't know I'd been holding.

"Fine," I said at last. "I'll put together a team. But if this falls apart... I'm not dragging anyone down with me."

"You won't," Welkin said.

Varrot nodded. "Selections due in three days. You'll have access to the personnel files shortly. Dismissed, Sergeant."

I turned to leave. My boots felt heavier than when I walked in.

Welkin's voice caught me just before the door. "Thank you, Jerry. I mean it."

I didn't turn around. Just kept walking.

Not sure when I stopped being invisible.

And not sure if that was a good thing.

000

The command center was dead quiet by the time I finally settled in with the files.

That particular brand of military stillness- more pressure than peace- had crept in like smoke through the walls. Outside, somewhere beyond the stone and steel, I could hear the distant grind of tank engines being tuned by tired mechanics. The late-night rituals of maintenance crews keeping their steel beasts combat-ready for tomorrow's drills. The war machine never truly slept. Neither did we.

Inside, the air smelled like what it always did: dust, sweat, oil. The perfume of duty, regret, and barely suppressed exhaustion. A breeze drifted in through a half-cracked window, too weak to do anything but rustle the corners of a teetering pile of manila folders in front of me.

Juno Coren sat across the table, posture like a blade, unmoved by the hour. Her uniform looked like it had been assembled with a ruler and an iron. I don't think a wrinkle dared exist in her vicinity. In front of her, files were arranged in precise rows, each folder marked and annotated with color-coded grease pencil like some sort of tactical mosaic. Blue for strengths. Red for psychological flags. Yellow probably meant "likely to stab someone over the last biscuit." Whatever her code, it worked. You could tell just by glancing.

Me? I was surrounded by chaos. My stack leaned like a condemned building.

"You're not actually expected to memorize them all," Juno said, tapping a folder with the eraser of her pencil. Her voice was calm, almost indulgent. "Just pick the ones who won't get you killed."

"That's the hard part," I muttered, flipping a page with a tired thumb. "I don't even know what I'm looking for."

She didn't bother looking up. "Then start with what you do know. You've been in combat. You know what it feels like when everything starts falling apart. So who do you want at your side when it does?"

That one hit harder than I wanted to admit.

I glanced at her, half grateful, half annoyed. Fully exhausted. Then leaned back in my chair. The damn thing creaked like it wanted to file a transfer.

Names. Stats. Training notes. Discipline records. It all started to blur together. A lot of these kids looked great on paper.  Too great. Polished like recruitment posters. Others read like complete disasters. But I knew better. Sometimes the ones who looked the worst were the ones still standing when the smoke cleared. Paper didn't bleed. It sure as hell didn't tell you who'd hold the line.

Then I hit a name. Wendy Cheslock.

Her photo caught me first. Wiry frame. Maybe twenty. Crooked grin and eyes that didn't quite belong to someone posing for a formal portrait. Like she was in on some joke the rest of the world hadn't caught up to yet. The kind of face that said: "Bet I'll surprise you."

"Shock Trooper," I muttered, flipping through the pages. "Specializes in high-intensity breaching..."

"Pyromaniac," Juno added, her tone light but edged. "Marked as such in three separate evaluations."

"I see that," I said flatly, thumbing a particular paragraph. "'Demonstrates a concerning fascination with explosives, fire-based weaponry, and... recreational demolition.' That's an actual phrase."

"She once blew out three windows on a bet," Juno added, twirling her pencil. "Still managed to win her exercise."

I kept reading. Her training reports were... a lot. Near-suicidal charges, outnumbered engagements, fire-related 'incidents' that made my eyelid twitch. She was chaos wrapped in a uniform, and all her instructors condemned her for it. She still won more often than she lost, and most of those losses… it was amazing nobody was dead, much less injured. I could almost respect it.

"She's dangerous," Juno said, watching me over the rim of her mug.

"She's effective," I shot back. "People like that don't follow orders. But they might follow someone who earns it."

I didn't say the rest aloud, because I didn't need to. I knew her type. Knew what it meant to be that type. You didn't follow rank. You followed conviction. You followed the person who didn't run.

I set Wendy's file aside. Not chosen. Not rejected. Just... considered.

Next one came faster: Marina Wulfstan.

Clean record. Top sniper marks. Minimal notes. No mess, no drama. The kind of file that read like a math problem solved by a sniper scope. Her photo showed a pale, narrow face framed by a curtain of hair and eyes cold enough to chill water. She looked more like a research assistant than someone who could end a life from 800 meters away.

Juno tapped a line in her file. "She requested solo quarters."

"Smart," I said. "People like her need quiet. Distance. That's a good sniper."

"Or she's just antisocial," Juno offered. "Either way, she won't be a problem."

I gave her a look. "You'd make a good officer."

"I've been told that," she said, tone dry as the desert. "Usually right before they ask me to handle someone else's disaster."

That got a laugh out of me- raw, short, but honest. First one I'd managed all night. Maybe all week.

So there we were: Juno. Wendy the wildcard. Marina the ghost. The triangle was forming; chaos, precision, and control. But it needed one more point. Something meaner. Something harder. The sharp edge.

I flipped through more files. Nothing. Names swam uselessly. I exhaled, dragging my hands down my face like I could scrape off the fatigue. I couldn't.

Juno sipped her coffee, then grimaced. "Cold."

"You're not going to find the perfect squad in those," she said. "Just broken pieces that fit well enough to hold together. The rest? That's your job."

I didn't get a chance to answer.

The door creaked behind us.

"Thought I'd find you here."

I looked up. Welkin stood in the doorway, carrying a battered metal tray with three mugs of steaming coffee balanced like offerings to the gods of burnout. He looked as tired as I felt, but the smile on his face was real. The kind of calm you didn't fake. The kind that came after you stopped pretending the weight wasn't there.

"Hope no one's allergic to barely-regulated caffeine," he said, setting the tray down.

"Smells like salvation," I muttered, accepting one.

He handed a mug to Juno.  She nodded with something resembling gratitude, as he pulled up a seat next to me.

"Came to check on my wayward Sergeant," he said, settling in. "Or maybe I just needed an excuse for a break."

"Good timing," I said, gesturing to the chaos around me. "We're hunting for miracles."

Welkin looked over the table. All those lives, reduced to paper. He nodded.

"I remember my first time doing this. I hated it."

"I'm getting there," I said.

"My father used to say," Welkin began, cupping the mug in both hands like it anchored him, "'Don't pick soldiers. Pick stories.'"

I gave a tired chuckle. "That sounds like something you'd say."

"Maybe. He was always more about thinking than barking. Believed a unit wasn't built from stats or muscle. It was built from the ones who kept showing up, even when everything told them not to. The ones who stood when the dust settled."

Juno leaned in slightly, eyebrow raised. "What would he have said about our Lion here?"

Welkin studied me. That look he gave me felt like an X-ray.

"That he's stronger than he thinks," he said. "And that it scares him more than getting shot."

I groaned. "Great. Insecure and emotionally unstable."

Welkin smiled, but the weight behind it lingered. He reached across the table and plucked a folder from the stack like it had been waiting for him.

Jane Turner.

"Here's your fourth," he said quietly.

I opened it. Barely two sentences in and my eyebrow was doing its thing again.

"Disciplinary record exceeds normal thresholds. Subject has engaged in unauthorized violence, provoked altercations, and has it on record of attacking Imperial prisoners on more than one occasion. Psychological evaluation suggests extreme aggression bordering on sadism and potential sociopathic tendencies."

I looked up at him. "You're giving me a lunatic."

"I'm giving you someone who already lives in the deep end," Welkin said. "Someone who's been in the dark and came back meaner. Someone who won't blink when it goes bad."

Juno frowned, pencil stilled. "She's more volatile than Cheslock."

"Exactly," Welkin said. "You've got precision. You've got chaos. You've got discipline. What you don't have is someone willing to do the awful thing and not flinch."

I looked at him, skeptical. "You think I need cruelty?"

"No," he said. "I think you need someone who's willing to do the things you've had to do. Because you can't be everywhere. And when the orders stop mattering, and everything breaks down, someone has to keep moving forward. Someone has to be willing."

We sat in silence for a long moment.

"She's dangerous," Juno repeated.

"So is war," Welkin replied. "Jane's not here to be liked. She's here to kill Imperials."

I looked down at the photo. Strong jaw, sharp eyes, and the kind of expression that said the camera was lucky she didn't punch it. There wasn't an ounce of mercy in that face.

"She'll fight for you," Welkin said. "If you earn it. Not for the flag. Not for the uniform. Just you. And that's enough."

I closed the file slowly. Felt the decision settle into my bones.

"That's four."

Juno nodded crisply, already stacking the selected files into a squared-off bundle. "Should I start the requisition paperwork?"

I took a sip of my coffee. Still hot. Bitter enough to sting.

I nodded. "Do it."

Welkin leaned back, arms crossed. "Congratulations, Sergeant. You've got your monsters."

I didn't say anything.

I looked down at the folders, at the chaos, the fire, the silence, and the steel I'd just named as mine.

They weren't model soldiers. They weren't heroes.

They were broken.

Just like me.

000

The training field stretched before us like an old wound; dry, cracked earth crumbling under moonlight, the skeletal remains of old dummies leaning like hanged men in the dark. The sun was gone. Only the cold silver of night remained, leaking down over rusted poles and trampled weeds. Wind rolled through the empty yard like a breath that didn't belong here.

I stood with Juno in the shadow of the munitions shed, just outside their line of sight. She stood like an officer at parade rest.  Still, sharp, coiled. Her eyes followed the women with precision, her mouth tight with calculation.

"They've been here twenty minutes," she murmured. "Are you sure these are the ones you want?"

I didn't answer immediately. Not because I wasn't sure. But because I was watching.

Three women. All dangerous. All discarded. The kind of soldiers command tried to forget.

Wendy Cheslock paced like a match waiting to catch flame. Her stance was erratic, loose-limbed and taut all at once. Arms akimbo, hands twitching toward invisible detonators. She grinned like someone who knew a secret, one with a fuse. Her eyes bounced around the yard, fixating on trees, barrels, shadows- like she expected something to explode. Maybe because she wanted it to.

Next to her, Jane Turner stood planted like a grudge. Tall, broad, still. All muscle and menace under a scuffed coat. Her arms were crossed like a barricade. She didn't look at anything; she dared it to look at her first. Her boot ground slowly into the dirt, almost absentminded, like she was trying to kill time and the ground beneath it both.

Marina Wulfstan stayed apart from them, perfectly upright, posture textbook, but there was nothing proud in it. Her arms folded tightly, jaw clenched, expression frozen in a professional mask that looked more like survival than pride. She didn't glance at them, didn't speak. She stood like someone who never stopped expecting the next bullet. And maybe hoped it came soon.

Wendy broke the silence first, her voice pitched too high for the night.

"You think we're in trouble again?"

Jane's grunt was all gravel. "Obviously. You probably blew something up again."

"I didn't blow anything up," Wendy shot back with mock innocence. "I just tested the fuel-to-pitch ratio near the barracks."

"That's arson."

"That's science."

Jane's glare tightened. "And I don't even remember what I did. That's how you know we're screwed."

"Maybe that one officer?  The one with the teeth?"

Jane blinked once, then smirked faintly. "That wasn't a hit. That was a demonstration."

"Of assault?"

"It was educational."

I felt Juno bristled beside me, but a motion from me quieted her.  Instead I motioned for her to follow, deliberately falling into my best prowling gait, for once leaning into the moniker of 'Lion'.

Their banter snapped to silence as we stepped into view. Boots on dirt. Sharp, deliberate. Juno moved like a blade, her uniform immaculate, her spine straight, her face carved from stone. I followed beside her, slower but heavier, letting the steps drag just enough. Letting the sound build weight.

Shoulders loose, eyes forward, jaw locked tight. I moved like something that hadn't stopped bleeding yet, like the war had followed me home and I hadn't told it no.  The theater of it grated on my nerves but it was necessary.  And I'd had more than a crash course in 'necessary' over the last few weeks.

Juno snapped her voice into the air like a whip. "Squad, attention!"

Marina obeyed immediately, snapping to form like she'd been slapped.  It was reflex, training, rote and organized.  The best of the three by far.

Wendy jerked her arms in close, standing stiffly, but she wasn't really at attention. She was fidgeting even while trying not to, still smiling that crazed half smile.  My eyes bored into her and her grin began to falter as she realized this wasn't the usual disciplinary drill.

Jane just stared at me, looking at me down her nose, an impressive feat given how I was taller than her and outmassed her by half a man at least.  Her posture was all challenge, mixed with just a touch of uncertainty.  I was no Rodriguez, and no doubt she was expecting him.

Juno opened her mouth to bark again, but I cut in with a raised hand.

"Let it go."

She looked at me, swallowed the command, then nodded. She understood the show. This wasn't about order. Not yet.

I stalked forward, slow and steady. Each step as deliberate as the last. I let them hear it. Let them feel it. Gave them time to wonder.

Jane met my eyes first. Unflinching. Defiant.

"What the hell is this?" she snapped. "Who are you?"

Brave words, spoken from her chest, and I could see Wendy was also watching with a vested interest, but… Marina just seemed to freeze.  She watched me from the corner of her eye, and as mine caught hers, her head snapped forward, as if hoping I hadn't noticed her.

I didn't answer.  I didn't have to.  It was Marina who finally got it.  I could almost see the moment it all clicked, and she tensed, ever so slightly, her fingers grasping for a rifle that wasn't there.  She watched me like someone watches a hungry, feral wolf.  One that wasn't quite right in the head, that had lost something… vital, something natural, and had crossed into the realm of the unknown.  Something she expected to burst into violence without pause, warning or mercy, coiled up like a spring and staring at you with eyes not full of hunger, but instead, the eyes of something that enjoyed the act of killing.

She was tense, like she wanted to run from me, and in that split second decision she broke the silence, her words quiet, measured.

"…You're him."

Wendy turned to look at the dark-haired woman. "Him?"

I watched, just letting her talk.  Letting her imagination run wild.

"The Lion of Bruhl."

The air shifted.

Jane looked gobsmacked. Wendy stiffened, her grin vanishing.

"Word has it that he jumped onto an Imperial tank, took a bullet to the chest, and didn't even flinch. Ripped open the hatch, dragged the crew out one by one, and threw the commander into the treads while it was still moving."  Jane said, her tone stained with approval, and maybe even a bit of awe.  "When the dust settled, he rode the burning wreck into the next skirmish like a cavalry charge- All while screaming and covered in soot."

I couldn't help but hike an eyebrow.  I hadn't heard that version before, and it sounded as insane as anything else.

Wendy scoffed, but not confidently. "That's a myth. Like the guy who eats tank shells."

Jane pouted at the girl, her tone low, defensive. "He didn't eat it. He caught it."

Wendy laughed again, nervously. "Like that's any better."

But Marina's voice dropped lower, reverent, unnerved.

"They say he found an Imp ambush. That he cut them apart and bathed in their blood. That when they finally caught up to him, he was drenched red with it. That the Imperials pulled back not because of orders, but because he was still there. In the dark. In the woods. Waiting. Watching."

I had to hide a wince at that one.  The ambush had been a slapdash shitshow from the word go, and people were making me out to be some kind of slasher killer one second and a vampire the next.  Juno shot me a secretly sympathetic look, already knowing my feelings on it, but that didn't matter in the here and now.

I let them talk amongst each other for a few moments more.  Chewing on what I wanted to say, without ruining the effect.  Finally, I gave a hum that sounded like grinding engine gears, a trick I had picked up years ago for quieting a conversation.

"Don't believe everything you hear."

Marina met my eyes. "But some of it's true."

I didn't look away.

"Maybe."

Something passed between them. A silent conversation that lasted only a moment, all of which was written on their faces at the end.  A thought, a creeping worry really, and a question.  'Why was The Lion here now?'  They all had it, and I saw it in their eyes; the shift. Not awe. Not admiration. Something simpler.

Fear.

Uncertainty.

Caution

.

"You think this is punishment," I said, voice low.

Jane curled her lip, her shoulders squaring up again, but this time, less certain. "Isn't it?"

I smiled, almost amused.  But there was nothing kind in it.

"No.  I don't have time to play disciplinarian and with you three,"  My eyes landed on Jane like the barrel of an artillery piece, "you especially, there's little enough point.  No, you're here because no one else wants you. That's the truth of it."

I turned to Wendy. "You're unstable. Reckless. You think fire is funny and shrapnel is an art form. You've got more knowledge of improvised demolition than most instructors, but no leash. No control. You don't know how to stop."

Wendy curled in on herself a bit, the ghost of a smile she'd perpetually carried finally vanishing.  Her body shifted, her fingers stopped twitching, and she fell silent.

My eyes landed on Marina. "You're a better shot than anyone on this base with a rifle. But you vanish. You isolate yourself. You kill from a thousand meters, cut off and cut out, then disappear and don't speak to your squad for days. You're not a team player. You're not meant for formation fighting. You're a precision weapon with no trigger discipline. A ghost."

Marina didn't flinch, but the faintest line creased her brow.

Finally, I looked at Jane, who met my eyes with a defiant glare, as if she were daring me to test her. "And you. You're angry. Always. You fight with your fists, your mouth, and whatever else you can grab hold of. You hate authority. Hate orders. Hate anything that smells like control. But you win. You rip through obstacles like they insulted your mother and keep going like the world hasn't already fallen apart behind you."

Jane bared her teeth. "So what, we're all broken toys?"

I stepped back and swept my gaze over them all again.

"No. You're all useful."

That made them flinch. Just slightly.

"You're not the cookie cutter soldiers they want. You're not safe. You're not stable. You're not a textbook anything. You're exactly what every commander hopes gets transferred somewhere else. But past all that, what you are… is effective."

Now they were really listening.

"Wendy, you know how to destroy nearly anything. You can make bombs out of trash and trigger traps with a paperclip and a prayer. You know how to level a barracks, or blow the treads off a tank, or turn a man into bloody chunks, and laugh while you do it."

Her smile returned, ever so slightly. Not wild this time, though. It was quietly prideful, like someone had finally seen her for what she was.

"Marina, you can shoot the wings off a fly from three hundred yards. You track better than half the scouts in this army. You don't miss anything, ever. You don't flinch. You don't hesitate. You're a natural born hunter with the teeth to prove it."

She nodded once. That was all.

"Jane…"

I stepped in closer to her.

"You're the monster they try to build in boot camp and never manage to keep. You break rules, bones, and anything stupid enough to stand in front of you. You'll kill with a brick, a bottle, your hands. You're what happens when someone forgets that war isn't about honor, it's about who walks away."

Jane didn't say anything. But her stance shifted. Less resistance. More intent.

"You're not here because you screwed up. You're here because I chose you. Because I've seen what happens out there. Seen what real war looks like. And I've seen what it takes to win."

I let the wind roll through. Gave the pause its weight.

"This isn't about doing your duty. This isn't about lines on maps or medals. It's about doing what has to be done. The ugly shit. The quiet jobs. The ones no one talks about. It's about killing the enemy where they sleep. Blowing their supply lines off the roads. Making them so afraid of the dark, they forget how to fight in the day."

My eyes met Marina's, holding her gaze just long enough to see the thoughts ticking through her head. "You'll shoot from the shadows, cut their command chain, and vanish without a trace."

I then turned to Wendy, whose nervous twitching had stilled into something like attention, "You'll turn their fuel into firestorms. You'll rig charges under their trucks, their beds, their latrines if you have to."

And finally, to Jane, who met my eyes with a challenging glare, back arched and eyes narrowed. "You'll go in loud. You'll crush them when they're weakest. You'll hurt them."

I exhaled slowly.

"And through it all, you'll be something more than just outcasts and weirdos and dangerous footnotes. You'll make a difference. Not in speeches. Not in medals. In results."

The wind was drier now. The words hanging in the air like a hangman's noose.

"You want out?" I asked. "Say it now. No shame. No judgment. But if you stay, understand that you're not soldiers anymore. Not in the traditional sense."

A beat.

Then Wendy tilted her head. "Honestly? Sounds like a blast."

Jane exhaled, cracked her knuckles. "You want killers? Fine. Just don't expect me to kiss your ass."

Marina's voice, low. Steady. "If it ends this faster… I'm in."

I nodded.

"Then training starts at zero-five hundred. No drills. No marches. No formality. Just pain, precision, and preparation."

I turned to Juno. "They're yours when I'm not around. Make sure they don't torch the armory."

She gave me a sidelong glance. "I'll try. No promises."

I took one last look at the three.

"You're not soldiers. Not anymore.  When we're done here, you'll be something else. Something more."

I gave each of them a hard look.

"You'll be Commandos."