Weippe: 0730
Tony shifted in the cockpit of his new Catapult. He glared at the drop clock—it had frozen over twelve minutes ago, stuck at six seconds. The sight grated on Tony's every nerve. He had hailed the drop controller too many times by now. He'd decided not long ago that it wasn't worth even the breath in his throat to try again. Nothing was going anywhere.
Tony felt his body tremble and his head split with pressure. His heart pounded, one ear rang, and his knee began to bounce.
Why? he thought, sifting through possible causes within the silent confines of his mind.
Anger? No—why would I be angry? I have full confidence in the drop.
Anxiety? Hardly. The sedatives in the oxygen would be keeping me calm.
Fear? Of what? Battle? Don't be ridiculous.
Anticipation? Yes. That's it. I'm ready to get down to the surface of that volcanic planet. I'm ready to fight. I want to be down there, basking in glory as I take the fight to those barbaric Bulls—conquer their molten rock of a world.
Tony had yearned to be in the first wave. He had even suggested it to the captain during the operational pre-launch briefing. But the captain had decided otherwise—she wanted the ground troops to draw first blood, to assess the planet's defenses. Tony saw that as a vital waste of time—an action that only alerted the enemy and allowed them to fortify.
If they had just dropped the hammer from the start, he thought, this planet would already belong to the Star League—already be a jewel of the Federation.
As he brooded, a sharp realization struck him: the dashboard lights shimmered in time with his thoughts, almost like they were listening.
I'm not alone in my own mind, am I? he thought.
He wasn't just projecting. He felt her excitement—her eagerness—thrumming within the Catapult's chassis. Where his heart pounded in anticipation, hers—her power core—throbbed in rhythm. Alive.
"Calm down," he commanded, his voice sharp and absolute, directed at the dashboard like an officer dressing down a subordinate.
This wasn't a plea. It was an order. One meant to be followed.
He could feel her excitement rising in tandem with his, a mounting rhythm deep in the machine's frame—an eagerness that threatened to override discipline.
"You will follow my pace. You do not lead. I command," Tony snapped, narrowing his eyes.
Her? The thought tried to creep back in.
"Excitement makes us sloppy," he said through clenched teeth. "And we are not sloppy."
Am I losing it? No. Not possible. All my psychiatric evaluations checked out. I'm fine.
"Don't you worry, Lieutenant—I'm icy," came Zand's voice, breaking through the din of his spiraling thoughts.
"Yes, you ought to be. If you fail today, it will be clear you've learned nothing from my instruction," Tony sneered. His voice was thin—unsteady.
Tony blinked and looked around his cockpit. A sliver of uncertainty crept in—but only briefly. He sucked in a deep, furious breath, and the air in his cockpit seemed to warm with his anger. His heartbeat surged in his chest. He held the breath, refusing to exhale until the heat died down.
I command you to calm, he told himself. And you will follow orders.
The cooling vest responded, flooding his body with chilled fluid. The temperature dropped. His heart slowed. The excited thrum within the machine softened to a steady, neutral hum.
"You alright over there…sir?" Zand asked hesitantly.
Zand had done everything he could to learn what Gutierrez had to teach. But the lieutenant's methods were brutal—day after day of strategy lectures, battle doctrine, and operational hierarchy. It was a lot to absorb.
Zand had been a tank commander. Strategy wasn't usually his job.
Tony's voice cut like a blade: "I am fine. I don't need your concern. I need you to show me results."
Zand hesitated. "Come on, Tony. We've known each other almost a week. You have some life in you, don't you?"
He tried to sound lighthearted—but it came across as pleading, even to himself.
Tony scoffed. "You see my heartbeat on your monitor? That means I'm alive. Now clear the comms and focus on memorizing your objectives and what orders you're going to issue."
"Already done that, sir. Got them all written down in a notepad here," Zand said, tapping a small pad resting on the left side of his control panel.
Tony's neck tensed. A notepad?
The simplicity—the carelessness—of Zand's response set Tony on edge, like a razor pressed against a nerve.
"Clear the comms, Zand." He shut off his radio.
He'd have to turn it back on eventually. But for now, he needed a moment of silence—respite from Zand's incompetence.
Then he felt it again: something digging. His neurohelmet pressed against his skull—not physically, but deeper, psychically. Images flickered behind his eyes like a projected film.
---
> MechWarrior Mental State: UNEASY
> Scanning…
Computing Solution
Scanning…
Solution Calculated
Accessing Memory… Assessing Value… Reconstructing… Deploying…**
---
Tony twitched. A memory unfolded.
He saw Ferne.
Her expression—euphoria. A moment he'd buried before boarding the Enchantress for this campaign to the Periphery.
They had fought. Competed. Trained together. Drank together. Almost died together.
One mission: insurgents. His Gladiator had been ruined by a rival mech with backup. Ferne's Firestarter didn't have the firepower to help.
But Jill, in a phoenix hawk, did. And Braxton was retreating. Slammed hard. No armor could withstand that barrage.
Tony's Gladiator went down. But not before he killed his opponent—and didn't miss the cockpit.
Ferne couldn't carry his whole chassis. But she carried the cockpit. According to the after-action report, she tore it free and brought it back.
Tony had hated himself for the weakness afterward. But in the moment, he was alive—so alive—flooded with adrenaline and something more primal.
Stress needs release. He's only human.
The image faded.
He sat, whole and uninjured, in the cockpit of his Catapult. No wounds. No mangled metal. Just the steady hum around him.
No sedatives administered. No hallucination triggers. Just…memory.
Why her? he wondered. Why now?
He resented her—for being a reason to let his guard down. That blissful moment they shared had no tactical value. No political gain. No transaction.
It served no purpose.
He resented her for that—
She constantly pouted, pandered, and generally annoyed him for attention. He refused to give in, because neither she nor anything attached to her served to further his goals. She was a distraction—one he didn't need.
With a bitter breath, he switched the comms back on.
The roar of chatter filled the cockpit. Any civilian would've been overwhelmed by the flood of voices. But years of training and a cultivated skill for filtering out noise kept Tony calm. A quick flick of a switch helped, too—it narrowed the channels to only the MechWarrior frequency.
He heard the voices of his former subordinates: Jill, Braxton, Ferne, Molboun. Pre-op chatter, plans for post-op celebrations, speculation about what was taking so long, why the drop clock had stalled.
Tony noticed something strange—the cockpit seat had slid back from the controls. He only realized it because it was now moving forward again, locking into place. Instinctively, he powered up his weapons, warmed his engines, and shifted into a battle-ready state of mind.
"Positive ID on a pair of BattleMechs. No further intel on additional 'Mechs," came a young man's voice, clear and commanding.
It silenced the banter. The drop controller had finally made his presence known.
A moment later, a databurst flashed across his HUD:
---
> Two BattleMechs detected:
> Hunchback – Medium-class
> Unknown Light-class
> Primary Objective:
- Eliminate opposition
- Secure the capital city
- Resupply ground forces
> Drop Point:
- Deactivated orbital battery emplacement
> Secondary Objective:
- Assist ground forces
- Hold capital until resupply and reinforcements arrive
> Final Objective:
- Extract
---
Tony scanned the objectives—simple, clean, and unmistakable. Even the incompetent couldn't misinterpret those orders… or so he hoped.
His eyes lingered on one phrase: "Secure the capital city."
It wasn't a hard task. With a little brute force, this battalion could take the city with ease. After all, these barbaric Taurians wouldn't hold against the Star League's might for long.
"Lieutenant Zand, Lieutenant Graves—buckle up and ready your lances," the drop controller's voice now rang with restrained excitement.
"Your teams will be first in the AO. Good hunting."
"Hell yeah! Let's go earn our paychecks, boys!" Lieutenant Graves' voice came through.
Graves' tone stood out. More playful than most MechWarriors, yet lower-pitched than the high, nasal voices common among New Avalon-born officers. Tony noticed that. Terrans were broader, squatter, and spoke deeper.
"I want to be back home in time to finish the game," Graves added, cocksure and unbothered.
"Who you betting on, Graves?" Zand's voice echoed in the channel.
Tony ground his teeth.
They were talking about sports now?
"Got a hunch the Warhawks take it this season," Graves chuckled.
The lights in Tony's cockpit dimmed… then pulsed red. The drop clock reappeared on his visor.
Six...
Two words echoed in Tony's head: Lieutenant Zand.
Five...
His anger simmered. Zand didn't earn that rank—it had been handed to him.
Four...
Tony felt insulted. This grunt was being treated with the same respect as him.
Three...
He had earned his title. Fought. Sacrificed. Trained. Bled. All for this.
Two...
Now he was playing babysitter, just for a chance to reclaim it.
One...
His fists tightened around the joystick and throttle. The Catapult's engines were whining. She was revving up—red lights pulsing like a heartbeat. She bucked beneath him, like a warhorse itching for the charge.
Zero.
Weightlessness.
A brief, floating moment.
But they were not rising—they were falling.
The Enchantress had released her lances of steel-barreled beasts.
War had begun.