Spearhead

North American and Pacifica Federacy

Department of Army Intelligence, Official OCTO-Legion Classification Manual. Page 1. CLASSIFIED EYES ONLY.

Electronic Disruption Type: Broad Classification Name – Flies. The smallest of the Legion types, the EDT, make any form of long-distance communication unusable as well as making any fighter aircraft obsolete. Deployed in swarms, they block out large swathes of sky, rendering the airspace too dangerous to aircraft at heights up to 4000m.

Scout Type: Broad Classification Name – Sparrow. Weighs approximately ten tonnes. Lightly armed with complex sensors and 7.57mm anti-personnel machine guns, Sparrows are considered a low priority target and should only be dealt with via machine gun fire and anti-tank mines.

Dragoon Type: Broad Classification Name – Wolf. The Wolf can be considered the Legion’s medium-tank. The fastest of the types, it can far outpace our current armoured forces. Furthermore, it also has the firepower to remain competitive. Equipped with a 57mm anti-tank guided missile launcher and high-frequency blades, the Wolf is a high-priority target for our armoured forces and artillery teams.

Tank Type: Broad Classification Name – Panther. The Panther is a true MBT. Weighing over 50 tonnes and equipped with a 120mm smoothbore gun, it is considered a high priority target. However, it does lack the mobility and speed of our current armoured forces and struggles with gun elevation. There is also a noticeable weak spot in the Panthers rear armour. The optimal engagement strategy is a flanking manoeuvre to exploit these weaknesses.

14 – 5 - 2148

After the truly devastating recon operation, Gwen returns home, head once again swirling with a confusing amalgamation of thoughts.

Just who is this Reaper? Are the rumours true? What kind of person is he? Does he… hate the blonde-haired, blue-eyed Alba?

Moonlight pours through her open, white blinds, the only thing illuminating her lavish bedroom, aside from a pale heat lamp standing alone on the corner of her grand, expensive desk. Sitting at the desk, Gwen gulps and draws a deep breath, steeling herself as she attaches the RAID device to the back of her pale neck. Its data had been rewritten while she’d talked with Peter, so it was ready to make its first, fated Resonance with Spearhead Squadron and… the Reaper.

All right… here goes nothing.

“Activate. Synchronisation target: Spearhead Processor.”

*****

The sun blazes brilliantly in the sky, its golden light spilling across the desolate ruins of the obliterated city, casting long, jagged shadows that stretch like ghosts. A soft, warm spring breeze whispers through the skeletal remains of the buildings, carrying with it the faint scent of dust and decay. Yet, an unsettling tension lingers in the air - something is aloof. A cacophony of shrieking crows erupts, their black forms taking flight and scattering eastward. Above a gentle slope on Route 44’s Main Street, a swirling mass of purple and black begins to ascend ominously, creeping skyward and steadily eclipsing the radiant sunlight. As the city plunges into an eerie dimness, the shadows grow bolder and deeper.

In the looming darkness, Undertaker lurks like a predator in the towering silhouette of a gutted steel factory, nestled beside the skeletal remains of Hartford Union Station. It’s cold, unyielding 57mm gun is motionless but ready, fixed on the diagonal stretch of Main Street.

A shrill warning alarm blares.

The metallic legs of Spearhead Squadron’s idle SP/DR’s oscillation sensors pick up a flurry of movement. A holo-window pops up and zooms in. Their screens suddenly fill with the colour of white steel, and their radars pick up countless red blips moving down the ruined main street.

They’re here.

Although Undertaker had already known this and had warned the members of Spearhead accordingly.

An army of mechanical demons move confidently, threatening to paint over the grey of the ruins with their white. The OCTO-Legion march in an orderly line, seemingly unaware of the lurking danger, confident in their jamming and recon abilities. As such, they haven’t yet bothered to spread out in a battle formation and bunch together, expecting to engage the enemy in more favourable positions at the far edge of the city, where they would have the advantage. Lightly armed Sparrows lead the charge, followed closely behind by Panthers and Wolves. The hunters are about to become the hunted.

The Reaper patiently sits idle, waiting for the low-priority Sparrows to pass. As soon as they crawl out of sight, their sensors ineffective in discovering the hidden SP/DR’s amongst the wreckage, a Panther rumbles into Undertaker’s crosshair.

The Reaper sneers and pulls the trigger, causing all hell to break loose in a flurry of APFSDS and HEAT shells.

*HEAT – Acronym for a tank round called ‘High-explosive anti-tank’. --ED.

The Panther explodes in a brilliant fireball as the rest of Spearhead open fire from their concealed cover, cornering the Legion in an L-shaped kill zone. The remaining Panthers turn to cover their weak spots and rounds bounce off their thick frontal armour, returning fire. Trollface and two other SP/DRs charge forwards, 12.7mm machine guns blasting as they tear into the lead formation of Sparrows, punching holes in them like Swiss cheese.

But still, despite the advantageous position they are in, the Reaper hears the pained screams and groans of an injured comrade.

He surges Undertaker forwards, high-frequency blades whirring, and hacks into the remaining Legion in a furious flurry of slashes.

The fight, overall, lasts no more than ten minutes.

The OCTO-Flies, sensing the number of casualties, begin to withdraw, fluttering their way back over the horizon. Spearhead collectively sigh in relief, bar two, as they sit idle, airing out their cockpits. As the brilliant rays of sunshine once again beam down on the battlefield, Undertaker spurs forward. It crawls past the other processor units, who watch it expectantly, and approaches the lone casualty, a processor called ‘Viper’. Its cockpit is riddled with large holes, presumably from 7.57mm machine gun fire, although the Processor’s viper insignia remains undamaged. Blood steadily seeps from the holes, pooling at the bottom of the SP/DR’s front left leg. The Processor is somehow still clinging onto life. His cries haunt the Para-RAID connection.

“It hurts…” he sobs. “Damn it all! DAMN IT!!”

The Reaper follows the call, stopping some ten metres from the dying Flash Thompson. Undertaker’s cockpit slowly opens with a hiss and the Reaper steps out, brandishing a black handgun.

“I don’t want to die!” Flash cries, his voice panicked, black hair sticking to his forehead.

The Reaper approaches him on foot, his boots making no sound against the dusty ground. He pulls back the gun’s slide and cocks the hammer with a click. Morbidly, he notes that there is a large hole in the top left of Viper’s cockpit, likely where a 120mm round pierced through the thin armour. The Reaper approaches the hole and coldly peers inside, laying eyes on his dying comrade.

“Miles,” Flash says, breathily, his voice suddenly less strained, as if he’s feeling relief at the Reaper’s presence. Blearily, he looks into Miles’ emotionless, amber eyes, his gaze unfocussed. “Promise me… Miles… don’t… forget…”

Miles doesn’t acknowledge the words, continuing to stare at his comrade.

Flash smiles deliriously.

The Reaper raises the handgun into the large hole.

Flash closes his eyes.

Miles presses the cold metal against Flash’s sweaty, bloody forehead.

And squeezes the trigger.

A sharp bang, like the crack of a whip, echoes and reverberates through the silent streets.

The surviving members of Spearhead all bow their heads in silence as the Reaper withdraws his handgun, claiming yet another soul to carry with him.

*****

A soft chinking sound fills the sombre battlefield. Miles chisels at Viper’s thin cockpit armour with a combat knife, working methodically to retrieve a piece of the black viper insignia, like he has done so many times before. He doesn’t even pause in his work when he hears the light crunch of boots behind him, just glances up briefly to see his comrade Hobie before dropping his eyes back to the insignia.

As usual, Hobie is wearing his customised black leather jacket, not too dissimilar from those worn by RAF Pilots during WW2. It is adorned with spikes, band patches and an anarchy symbol on his back, completely disregarding military dress code. However, he is wearing black combat pants, though shredded and worn. His SP/DR, Anarchist, is similarly decorated, featuring the same anarchy symbol as his jacket, along with a hodgepodge of crudely drawn political artwork, mainly taking jabs at the Alba.

“Was Flash able to go?” Hobie asks, watching the Reaper as he works, crossing his arms and leaning against Viper.

“Yeah.” Miles betrays no emotion as he continues to chip at the cockpit armour.

“What about your uncle’s voice?”

“Nah,” Miles grunts, successfully peeling off the insignia. He slips the thin metal scrap into his combat pants for safekeeping until they return to base.

“Bugger.”

*****

The room is cramped and unwelcoming, no larger than a prison cell and only marginally more appealing. The walls are painted a sickly shade of pale vomit green, their surface marred by faint cracks and smudges. A narrow, single pipe-frame bed is shoved into one corner, its coarse white sheets neatly tucked in. Above it and to the side, a square window lets in a blaring stream of red sunlight.

A battered bedside table stands beside the bed, its two drawers slightly misaligned and its surface scuffed from years of use. Opposite the bed, there is a banged up, green fridge, its shelves and top serving as an impromptu bookshelf. The room’s only desk, scarred by deep gouges and scratches, suspiciously similar to that made by a combat knife, sits against the far wall, its surface empty and barren, like a desert.

Having returned from their interception mission, Miles steps into the room, his tall, imposing frame filling the small space. Despite serving on the north-eastern front, which consists mostly of forests, prairies and bodies of water, he wears a black camouflage uniform with two red lines running from his wrist to his ankles, which he’d obtained from the Republic’s surplus stock. As there are no officers to rebuke him for it, he keeps his collar loose, with a purple scarf wrapped around his neck.

His movements are slow as he approaches the overstuffed fridge, filled to the brim with books. His fingers tactically pluck a bright red one from the top shelf—All Quiet on the Western Front. He doesn’t linger, tucking the book under his arm, moving with purpose, making a point to ignore the dusty sketchbook collecting cobwebs in the corner. As he turns to exit, the waning sunlight catches the faint glint of his handgun secured in its holster. A reminder of the promise he must keep, and the life he lives.

Miles slips out of his officer quarters, footsteps unnervingly silent against the worn, uneven floorboards, like a dead man walking. The hallway beyond is just as bleak as the room he leaves behind. The walls are faded, once-white paint now a mottled grey, and the air smells faintly damp with a light stench of mildew.

The FOB has seen better days.

*FOB – Forward Operating Base. --ED.

He makes his way outside, breathing in the crisp, spring air with hints of pollen, as the setting sun beams against his dark skin. Miles gracefully sits on an old, worn park bench, adjacent to a decrepit basketball court. He tactfully ignores a long-decayed corpse of a brown-haired man, lounging on another park bench with a sign strung around his neck, reading in bold red writing: PIG. And just like that, the notorious Reaper - the Undertaker - watched over by a mural of Saint Atlantica herself and a decomposed comrade, starts to read.

A moment later, the sound of intermittent conversation fills Miles’ ears. His eyes flick up, searching for the unwelcome distraction, to see Hobie, Ganke Lee, Pavitr Prabhakar and Phin Mason round the corner, arguing and bouncing an old basketball.

“Well, thinking about this strategically, I don’t want to be teamed with you because I respect the rules, but I also don’t want to be against you because you don’t follow the rules,” Pav says to Hobie, philosophically placing his hand on his chin, deep in thought. He wears an old Republic army uniform dyed an earthen shade of olive green and sporting an Indian flag on his right shoulder in an attempt to imitate and copy the old Indian army uniform.

“That’s watertight logic, Pav,” Hobie drawls. “Rules are made to oppress and exploit the lower class, like us. We gotta break free, escape the corrupt, rules-based order.”

“Can you guys chill?” Phin snarks, trying to swipe the ball from Hobie. He merely holds it above her head, smirking. “It’s just basketball.”

“Nuh uh ah, that’s how it starts,” Hobie chides knowingly, wagging his finger at her. “First, they chip away at your rights, then it’s segregated spaces, then segregated regions, and finally, before you can even say ‘white pig’, you find yourself labelled an inhuman Eighty-Six pig from the Eighty-Sixth district.”

“I’m with Phin on this one,” Ganke groans, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Hey, Miles!” he yells, waving at the silent Reaper on the side of the court. “Can you decide our teams for us?”

Miles doesn’t even bother to look up, his eyes still on his book. “You guys argue about this every single day.”

“Of course we do, because it’s so boring here!” Pav moans in his over-the-top, puppyish way, flopping to the ground. “There isn’t anything else to do!”

“Didn’t some smart dude once say war is 2% terror, and 98% boredom?” Ganke questions, his voice mildly annoyed at Pav’s antics.

Pav ignores Ganke and continues groaning into his hands. Hobie, being the chaotic neutral anarchist that he is, spots an opening for some devious shenanigans, and drops the basketball onto Pav’s stomach. Pav lurches up with a startled oompf!

“I don’t know how I’ve survived three months with y’all,” Phin sighs, watching as Pav rolls on the ground, somehow managing to laugh and cry at the same time.

Hobie slaps Phin on the back. “Right,” he says, using his XO voice. “It’ll be me and Phin against Ganke and Pav. Are we all good with that?”

There’s a chorus of agreement. The game begins shortly after, with Hobie unashamedly carrying the ball and shoulder charging anyone who gets in his way, like a Rugby player. After a quarter of an hour of relentless bickering and cheating, a loud banging sound drowns out the scuffs and scratching of the game, like someone is bashing a spoon against a metal pot. 

“Oi!” yells the gruff, harsh voice of a soldier called Horatio Homunculus Hercules Heavython the Third, or Heavy for short. “Mad lads of Spearhead Squadron, friggin’, um, grubs up!”

Pav immediately drops the ball, thrilled at the prospect of food. He dashes from the basketball court like a labrador. Phin and Ganke follow, with Hobie languidly bringing up the rear.

Miles sighs and closes his book. After a few moments, he reluctantly leaves the now-peaceful courtyard and walks into the dining hall. It’s a purely functional space, filled with rows of tables and chairs, and the aroma of grease and boiled potatoes.

“Bangers and mash, lads,” Heavy calls from the servery. He is six-foot-four and extremely well-built, his muscles bulging through his uniform, over the top of which is a pink, frilly apron. For some reason, he always volunteers for kitchen duty and serves their food with gusto. His voice is deep and gruff with a thick Australian accent, and his default volume is yelling. He has the blonde hair and blue eyes of the Alba but ended up in the Eighty-sixth district after being deemed mentally deficient and psychotic, or ‘retarded’ as most Alba would say. “Snag ’em while they’re hot.”

Miles joins the queue. By the time he is served, there is only one seat left, next to a young Indian girl called Gayatri Singh. Pav and Hobie are also at the table, shovelling food into their mouths. Ganke is sitting at a table nearby, with young soldiers called Danika Hart and Liz Allan.

“So, do we know anything about our new Handler yet?” asks Gayatri, looking at Miles expectantly.

“Gah, who gives a rats,” comes a thick Scottish accent. It’s their comrade, Cameron McDonald, entering the mess hall in his unhurried way. “They’re all pieces of shite.”

Cameron approaches the servery, eyeing off the food with a hungry look. Heavy glares at him.

“No ya fuckin’ don’t, ya dog,” Heavy yells. “You were supposed to help me serve up. Piss off!”

*Dog – Aussie slang insult for someone who can’t be trusted or has no integrity. --ED.

“How many Handlers have we had, anyway?” Phin asks, ignoring Heavy and Cameron as they begin to brawl behind her, banging and crashing into various kitchen utensils.

“Five, last I checked,” Ganke replies, pointing to the crude, derogatory sketches of all their past Handler’s hung proudly on the wall. Ganke had drawn the pictures whenever a new Handler was appointed and was anticipating drawing a sixth. “Anyone wanna take bets on how long this new one will last?”

“A month!” says Pav.

“A fortnight!” yells Phin.

“No, no, a week!” cries Cameron, face red like his hair as Heavy holds him in a headlock.

“You’re all idiots,” says Hobie. “Two hours tops!”

Everyone in the mess hall roars with laughter, except for Miles, who continues to eat, his face impassive.

“Well, at least we can rely on our Reaper,” says Danika, raising a cup in the direction of Miles, “to carry us to our final destination.”

“Yeah, we’re counting on you, big man,” Hobie smiles, his voice uncharacteristically sincere.

Miles keeps his gaze fixed on the plate in front of him, uncomfortable with all the attention. It’s not like he chose this fate, to be the one to always survive, squadron after squadron. Forever condemned to walk this Earth alone.

Heavy raises a slightly bloody potato masher in the air. “Our Reaper,” Heavy says proudly. “Our very own ‘Hard R’!”

“You fuckin’ oaf,” Cameron yells from the floor. “Do you even know what that means, ye daft piss stain?!”

“What?!” Heavy roars, suddenly looking very confused, but angry, nonetheless.

Everyone dies of laughter and the room falls back into easy chatter as they finish their meals.

*****

Miles silently enters his room, moonlight now beaming through the window, illuminating the small space in a silvery, ethereal light. He sinks onto the creaky desk chair and tugs at his holster, unclipping it from his pants, and placing it on the corner of the table with a soft thunk. Then, without any further fanfare, he retrieves the cold metal scrap of Viper’s cockpit insignia and sets it on the table with a chink, before sliding his combat knife out of its scabbard. Gripping the worn, leather handle, he gets to work, his hands nimbly engraving Flash’s name into the thin steel with practiced, artistic ease.

Blowing off bits of residue, he admires his handiwork, staring blankly at the freshly engraved name. Suddenly, without warning, the Para-RAID attached to his upper ear flashes with a soft buzz and activates. Rather than a bracelet-like device wrapped around their necks, each Processor is fitted with a different model, surgically attached so that the Para-RAID can never be taken off and the Processors are always available.

“Handler One to all Spearhead units,” says a sweet, silvery voice. “Hi. I’m your new command and control officer.”

Miles feels the surprise of his comrades flash across the Resonance. Suddenly, and rather bluntly, Ganke blurts out: “A woman?”

Miles hears a roar of laughter from the common room down the hall and a bashful comment from Heavy along the lines of: “Fucking what, mate? You never spoken to one before?”

The new Handler tactfully ignores them. “Anyway,” she says, a hint of awkwardness creeping into her voice. “Thought I’d swing by and introduce myself.”

There’s a long, hesitant pause. Gwen starts to feel disheartened. Do they not know how to respond to an officer treating them like this? Obviously, it’s a unique experience for them.

Finally, a quiet, young-sounding voice, responds. “’Sup, Handler One,” says Miles, neutrally. “Spearhead Squadron’s combat commander speaking. Personal Name: Undertaker.”

It’s Gwen’s turn to pause from surprise. Contrary to his ominous name, his pronunciation and enunciation is measured and professional, although slightly lilted with an accent she can’t quite put her finger on. Regardless, his voice is as serene as a deep forest lake, and she presumes he can’t be much older than her.

Unbothered by the Handler’s silence, Miles continues. “We were clued up that we’d be getting a new Handler a couple of days ago. We’re lookin’ forwards to working with you.”

“Same,” Gwen replies, regaining her previous composure. “It’s good to finally meet you, Undertaker.”

*****

Once the formalities were over, the call didn’t last much longer. After the Para-RAID flickered off and the silvery voice faded away, Miles had, once again, been left alone with his thoughts. For some reason, he felt the long-forgotten urge to pick up a pencil and draw something…

Choosing to ignore the strange sensation, he makes his way outside into the cool night, towards the hangar where the SP/DR’s are all neatly parked. As he picks up a clipboard hanging by the door, he briefly glances at a message scrawled in big, over-the-top letters with coloured chalk on a blackboard someone had placed in the back corner of the hangar: ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-NINE DAYS TILL I END MY SERVICE! FUCKIN’ GLORY TO THE SPEARHEAD SQUADRON!

Flash had written this message the day he joined the squadron and updated it every morning. Now, it will never be updated again. Miles walks further into the hanger, reading the maintenance report on the clipboard, notifying him his unit had finished undergoing repairs, again. After a while, he becomes aware of the sound of people talking intermittently, somewhere nearby. His eyes flicker up, and he spots Hobie and Danika Hart walking into the hangar. The pilot of the Processor ‘Bellflower’, Danika is one of the more bubbly and even-tempered members of Spearhead, choosing to wear purple digicam, with black hair, purple dyed tips and glasses.

*Digicam – nickname for ‘digital camouflage’. --ED.

“Oi, Miles, my guy,” Hobie says in greeting. “Squeaky Clean seems bloody dangerous.”

“Huh?” Miles mumbles, not entirely sure what Hobie is referring to.

“The new Handler,” Danika supplies, helpfully, her voice tinged with a teasing tone. “Did you forget already?”

Before Miles can respond, an annoyed, high-pitched shout shakes the hangar with a roar that could even make a tank stop in its tracks.

“Miles! Miles G Morales! How do you keep doing this?!”

Not even a second later, Peni Parker storms towards him, her small frame heaving with badly contained anger. Hobie and Danika share a brief glance, before smirking and making a run for it, leaving Miles to deal with the furious Peni.

“What’s up?” Miles says, patiently.

“Don’t you ‘what’s up’ me, mister! You know EXACTLY what’s up,” Peni says in an accusatory tone, stopping in front of Miles and placing her clenched fists against her hips. She wears round welding goggles and oil-stained work clothes typical of a maintenance division Captain.

“Why do you make it a personal mission to ruin your beautiful SP/DR,” she cries, then takes a deep breath, like she’s charging up for a powerful attack. “EVERY FREAKING TIME YOU SORTIE?!?!”

Miles keeps his face neutral. This seems to annoy her even more.

“The actuator and dampener are rattling all over the place! I keep telling you the suspension units weak! SO WHY DO YOU KEEP ABUSING IT?!”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

“Do you seriously think an apology is gonna fix this?” she asks in disbelief. “Your poor SP/DR, it keeps begging me to end its suffering! You’ve gotta change your ways!”

Miles just blinks. Peni claiming that she can talk to the SP/DR’s is normal for her, honestly. She’s weird like that.

“That insane fighting style of yours is gonna kill you one day,” she admonishes, shaking her head in frustration. “And by the way, we’re almost out of spare parts, so your unit only has one more mission in it before we restock.”

“What about my spares?” Miles inquires.

“Oh, yeah,” Peni says, like she just remembered. “We’ve got to have one when our Captain keeps trashing his rig. I’ve been keeping count, actually, and you come for repairs three times more than any other processor!”

Miles merely shrugs. Peni groans in exasperation.

“You’ve gotta go easier,” she says. “Unless we get you three rigs, there’s no way we can keep up. Whaddya expect me to do? Pray to the scrap metal fairies to pick up your bits and bobs?”

“Didn’t Spi-do yoink Flash’s unit?” Miles says matter-of-factly, nodding towards a clumsy, four-legged scavenger drone peeking around the hangar door, listening in on the argument. Spi-do ducks for cover upon being spotted by Miles and beeps ashamedly. Peni, on the other hand, falls silent at Miles’ words. She briefly looks towards the colourfully decorated blackboard, a look of sadness flashing across her face.

“Well, yeah,” she starts, turning back to Miles. “I suppose I could Frankenstein some parts from it. But are you ok with that? I mean… I’d be putting parts from a unit that a comrade died in into yours.”

Miles tilts his head and walks past her. He approaches Undertaker, with its black armour and red stripes running up its legs, and taps it. Right next to where he raps his knuckles, beneath the canopy, is his personal mark, a headless skeleton carrying a shovel.

Peni smiles bitterly, painfully aware of the Reaper’s responsibility.

“Stupid question,” she says quietly, walking after Miles. “I got it, Undertaker.”

She makes her way to her cluttered, chaotic workbench, grabbing an assortment of well-used tools and a creeper for sliding underneath the SP/DR’s.

“Y’know, in a way, Flash was lucky to go out in a unit that had you. Same as all the other Eighty-six who you carry with you.” Peni’s voice is kinder now, as she sets the creeper down next to Viper.

Miles doesn’t respond, continuing to stare at the headless skeleton. Peni continues chattering on intermittently, talking at him rather than with him.

“By the way,” she says, setting to work on dismantling Viper. “I heard we’ve got ourselves a new Handler. What are they like?”

Miles glances at Peni as she works. “Fine,” he says dryly.

“Fine?” Peni asks, surprise tinging her voice.

“She synced just to say hi. Basically wants to maintain good comms,” Miles says, clambering into Undertaker’s cockpit. “Said she’ll be calling every day. Dang near unheard of for a Republic officer.”

“She must live a difficult life,” Peni muses. “Having a heart that big and all that. I almost feel bad for her.”

Miles doesn’t respond and they fall into a comfortable silence. He rummages around inside Undertaker’s cockpit, retrieving a banged up, dark green ammunition box from a small storage area next to the pedals. Miles flips open the rusting, scarred lid and stares at the contents. Countless pieces of scrap metal, all with Processor insignia artwork and names engraved into them, stare back. The Reaper rummages through his pocket for a brief second, before pulling out Flash’s engraved piece of scrap metal and placing it at the top of the massive pile.

*****

22 - 5 - 2148

“So, whaddya reckon? Trash or food?”

Hobie and a few other members of the team are scavenging the ruins of a large town for food and other goodies. In a square littered with rubble, Hobie has taken a can of synthesised rations they’ve received from the base's latest supply drop and placed it on the concrete next to a piece of preserved bread he’s found in the city hall's emergency storage.

Beside him stands Spi-do, with its square, angular body. It follows SP/DRs on the battlefield, supplying energy packs and ammunition. Spi-do leans in, its lens-like optical sensor observing the food in front of it. Designated as Spearhead Squadron’s scavenger since its latest iteration, Spi-do has served Miles for five years. Once part of one of Miles’ old units, it was one of only two survivors of a battle. Intrigued by the fellow lone survivor, Miles rescued it, and the two have been inseparable ever since, forming a uniquely wholesome bond.

"Trash or food, Spi-do,” Hobie repeats.

Spi-do immediately extends a crane arm and flicks the synthetic ration to the side. Watching the white lump roll away, Hobie takes a bite from the bread. ‘Even a bloody drone can tell this synthetic glob is shit,’ he thinks to himself. ‘What are the white pigs thinking, trying to pass this off as food?’ He finishes the bread and wipes his hands on his pants.

“Aight,” he continues, “let’s find a shitload of anything that isn’t that garbage.”

"Spi." The Scavenger unit mimics Hobie’s call as he rises from his squat, setting about collecting anything useful. Each salvageable piece is carefully placed into its container to be hauled back to base, along with anything else Hobie or the others find. Hobie follows a few paces behind, slinging a pair of battered bags over his shoulder, his sharp eyes scanning the crumbling facades of nearby buildings for anything the machine might miss.

After what feels like an eternity of sifting through the ruins, the pair meet up with the other team—Heavy, Phin and Gayatri—near the shadowy hulks of their parked SP/DR’s. The two young women heft four bulging bags between them, filled to the brim with loot, while another eight laden sacks sit neatly stacked near the cracked edge of a small, algae-coated water feature. Heavy, meanwhile, stands at the base of the fountain, grinning like a madman as he gleefully hurls chunks of rubble at the weathered statue of Saint Atlantica perched atop it. The sound of shattering stone echoes through the ruins, mingling with his child-like laughter.

“Bloody hell,” Hobie calls out as he approaches the group, taking in the pile of loot. “That’s quite the haul.”

“Sure is,” Phin replies, beaming with pride. “Not that it’s a competition or anything.”

“I’m more surprised you got Heavy to focus for five minutes,” Hobie muses, setting down his own bags with a thud.

“Oi, Spi-do,” Heavy shouts, briefly halting his barrage of projectiles. “Get over ‘ere, I’m not allowed to use any high explosives!”

Spi-do bounds over to Heavy, eager to join in the chaotic destruction of property.

“We promised him thirty minutes of focus, then we’d let him destroy stuff,” Gayatri explains with a shrug, her tone amused. She too, like Pav, wears a camo pattern trying to imitate the old Indian armies one.

Their conversation is cut short by a sudden crash as Spi-do barrels headfirst into the storefront of a decrepit dress shop at Heavy’s command, shattering the glass and sending faded clothing flying in every direction.

“That’s the bloody spirit!” Hobie shouts, his grin widening as he takes in the mayhem.

“AGAIN, AGAIN, AGAIN!” Heavy cheers, clapping his hands with unbridled, childish glee.

For a brief moment, the soldiers pause, taking in the simple joy of the destruction. They’re each momentarily overcome with memories of days long past, where they could be carefree. But the peace is fleeting as the sharp buzz of their Para-RAIDs pierce the air, shattering the calm, whimsical atmosphere.

“You there, hunting party?” Ganke’s voice comes through the Resonance, clear and succinct. As the highest-ranking member present, Hobie answers on behalf of the group.

“Ganke? What’s up?”

“Change of forecast. Reaper reckons rain’s incoming.”

Hobie’s gaze narrows as he turns towards the Legion’s territory. Barely visible against the clear, blue sky, a faint shimmer of purple and silver dances ominously in the distance. OCTO-Flies.

“When’s it hitting?” he asks, his voice steady.

“Two hours,” Ganke replies. “They’re probably restocking, then they’ll advance.”

“Roger. We’ll head back now,” Hobie says.

“There’s no Shepherd this time,” Ganke adds, a faint hint of amusement lacing his tone. “They’ll try to brute force us.”

A grim satisfaction flickers in Hobie’s eyes as he strides toward his unit, Anarchist. “Aight, mount up!” he commands, his ferocious smile returning.

“Fucking oath!” Heavy shouts, already dashing towards his unit, Punisher. “I’m so fucking ready!”

The fight will be difficult to say the least, but with no Shepherd leading the Legion, their tactics should be simpler and easier to counter. Hobie feels a small sense of relief knowing they won’t be fighting against a Shepherd’s chaotic genius.

It’s the small things in life, he muses to himself.

*****

Miles sits silently in the cramped cockpit of his SP/DR, hidden in the shadows of a crumbling church, nestled deep within the city ruins, his breathing measured and steady. It’s the perfect spot for an ambush, with a commanding view of the main street, which has been designated as the kill zone. The platoons are strategically deployed, ensuring their lines of fire won't overlap.

Miles’ first platoon takes the vanguard position, while Danika’s fourth platoon provides suppressing fire, stationed on opposite sides of the main street. Gayatri’s fifth platoon is in charge of explosive munitions, and Phin’s sixth platoon, positioned at the street's edge, is ready to snipe from a distance using their larger 120mm guns.

Even without consulting the optical screens, Miles instinctively senses the enemy force's size and formation. The Legion employs a standard diamond formation, anticipating a conventional head on clash, confident they hold the element of surprise. The scouting party trails at the rear, while the remaining four parties form the diamond’s vertices.

Although the OCTO-Legion has superior numbers and technology, their reliance on predictable, straightforward tactics makes them extremely vulnerable to ambushes, one of Spearhead Squadron’s many specialties.

"Handler One to all units. Sorry for being late, I kinda got delayed."

A silvery, young voice reaches Miles’ ears through the Sensory Resonance.

"Ok guys, enemy forces are approaching. Intercept them at point 208."

"Undertaker to Handler One. We’ve already got the enemy's position confirmed and are deployed at point 304," Miles responds plainly.

"That was fast,” she says, with a hint of awe in her voice. “Nice work, Undertaker."

A warning alarm blares. Their legs' oscillation sensors detect something. A holo-window pops up and zooms in.

Ahead lies a sharp corner at the end of the main street lined from the sides by wreckage. A black silhouette suddenly covers the sunlight streaming down, and the next moment, their view fills with the colour of steel. Legion round the corner, moving swiftly through the annihilated streets like a tidal wave of ants.

Miles feels anticipation and jitters beginning to emanate through the resonance.

“Easy…” he says calmly, not wanting anyone to get any itchy trigger finger. “Let ‘em come to us.”

At his words, their breathing steadies. The Legion draw closer.

The leading platoon, composed entirely of Sparrows, enters the kill zone. It draws near the first platoon lying in ambush and passes them by without noticing. Led by their vanguard, the rest of the units pass them one by one until, eventually, the Panthers, lurking at the rear, enter the encirclement.

"Open fire."

At Miles' cold command, all units fix their sights on the targets they've been appointed and pull the trigger.

The fourth platoon begins gunning down the vanguard, while the first platoon bombards the back line. The Sparrows relatively frail armour and the Panther’s lightly guarded rears are shot clean through, and the units collapse, still and unmoving. The other SP/DR's open fire, piercing through the Legion's remaining forces, which immediately shift to battle positions.

Explosions and thunderous blasts rock the battlefield as pieces of scrap metal and silver micromachine blood spray into the air.

At that moment, twenty-one SP/DR's withdraw from their positions. Some leave their cover and continue firing while others run from cover to cover, unloading bullets from the flanks and rear. Swiftly, with practiced ease, the first SP/DR's have already taken cover and begun shooting at the flanks of other Legion, changing targets seamlessly.

The SP/DRs are poorly designed combat machines with flimsy aluminium-alloy armour, weak main batteries, and limited manoeuvrability comparable to treadmill tanks. Their fragile quadruped legs, lacking effective cruise-control, produce high ground pressure, making them prone to tripping in rain and ineffective overall. Lightly armed, they stand no chance against the Wolves or Panthers in direct combat. Instead, Processors employ tactics passed down by the fallen Eighty-Six of years past: using multiple units, exploiting terrain and cover, and targeting weak points or vulnerable rear sections—methods refined through countless battles and sacrifices. The Spearhead Squadron, having fought with these methods for years, executes them instinctively, requiring no communication within platoons as each unit operates seamlessly without conflict.

And besides...

They have the Reaper protecting them.

Undertaker runs along the shadows of the ruins of a collapsed building, evading the enemies' lines of fire but never allowing them out of its sights. It guns the Legion down skilfully, downing Scout types (Sparrows) and Dragoon types (Wolves), at times even circling around the Tank types (Panthers) and firing at their vulnerable weak points, while also drawing out their escorts and downing them.

Disrupting the enemy forces' coordination is Miles' job. Serving a vanguard role, he’s a point man exceptionally skilled in close quarters combat even among other vanguards. This is both his role within the squadron and the fighting style he is most proficient in.

As he rushes through the battlefield, his cold gaze, which marks targets for certain death, suddenly wavers.

Guess you won’t come out this time, ay?

That meaningless, momentary thought is almost immediately swallowed by the black smoke of his cannon as he pulls the trigger again.

"Third platoon. Aggravate the platoons you're fighting and retreat southeast. Fifth platoon, stay where you are. Open fire as the enemy forces enter the kill zone and take them out." His voice is a smooth command as he locks his cold gaze on his next target.

"Understood,” Gayatri (Antaka) says briskly. Then, speaking to Pav, she says, “Shoka, if you're gonna reload, do it right now!"

"Trollface here,” Ganke says to Gayatri. “I'm reloading, too. Don't go blastin’ in this direction, Antaka!"

"Oi, lads!” Punisher (Heavy) yells, his voice manic and crazed with bloodlust. “Direction 270, distance 400. Fuckers are pouring in!"

"Aye, understood," Highlander (Cameron) shouts. “Let’s butcher the wee bastards, Punisher!”

The sound of gunshots from afar shakes the rubble. A group of Wolves attempt to ambush them with an astounding technique running vertically along the building walls, but they are reduced to scrap by Heavy’s quadruple eight-barrel, rotary gatling-gun fire as they try to lunge at the SP/DR's.

Miles looks around, attempting to identify his next target, but his gaze suddenly shifts as he notices something.

"All units, cease fire and spread out."

Spearhead obeys the sudden order without question. Moments later, a piercing screech cuts through the air, followed by artillery shells exploding across the battlefield, churning the charred soil. It's the 155 mm self-propelled artillery Legion, the OCTO-Skorpion.

Miles' computer calculates the firing position as 30 kilometres east-northeast. However, this information is useless, as they don't have any long-range ordnance available. The best they can do is try and terminate the observer units giving targeting information to the Skorpions.

"Handler One to all units,” says Gwen. “I’m transmitting the observer units’ coords right now. Confirm and eliminate them!"

Miles lifts his gaze, noting three points lighting up on his digital map. He briefly compares it with the enemy positions he perceives.

"Tinkerer, four units in direction 030, distance 1200," he says to Phin, who is hiding in the buildings nearby. As the Squadron’s designated sniper, it’s her job to carry out such tasks.

"Roger. On it."

"Handler One, using directional lasers to send data risks exposing our position. Just tell us next time."

"Shoot, my bad," she responds, sheepishly.

"The next Observer Unit should be coming out soon. We're gonna need you to pinpoint it." Miles is slightly surprised at the Handlers immediate, genuine apology. He can sense a smile blossoming on her face from the other side of the Resonance.

"On it!"

Miles knits his brows at the cheer in the Handler’s voice but hearing the proximity alert wail amid the jumble of shouts, he shifts his attention back to the battle. Seconds later, a fresh bombardment of artillery streaks down from the heavens.

Meanwhile, Hobie charges through the battlefield, evading bombardment as he blasts the enemy. Dashing through the ruins as he rushes from cover to cover, he discovers that someone has already beaten him to his next spot.

It’s Undertaker. 

But seconds later, it doesn’t matter.

Undertaker leaps from cover, skilfully dodging fire as he charges four Tank types (Panthers) at full speed, nothing sort of a reckless, suicidal move. The Handler yells in panic, “Undertaker?! What are you doing?”

A Panther fires, but Undertaker effortlessly evades. Shells continue to miss as he closes in, relying on his experience to dodge the lethal 120 mm rounds. The Panther retaliates, attempting to catch him off guard by charging at him with terrifying speed, its eight mechanical legs kicking up earth.

At the last second, Undertaker is airborne.

Leaping horizontally, he dodges the Panthers attack. Changing direction midair, he leaps up again as soon as he lands. Clinging to the Legion’s frame, Undertaker uses the Panthers leg joints as footholds, rapidly climbing to the top of the turret. Reaching it, he depresses his barrel and fires an APHE round that slams through the Panthers weak turret like butter, detonating inside and destroying it as shrapnel tears up its insides.

*APHE – An armour-piercing high-explosive tank round. --ED.

Using the downed unit as cover, Miles dodges a third shot from a Panther, then, as flames obscure its sensors, fires his grapple lines (or ‘web-shooters’ as Peni likes to call them) at a nearby apartments roof and ascends. He quickly springboards off and lands on the third unit’s turret as it frantically swerves to locate its lost target as Miles shoots it point-blank.

By the time he leaps from the smoking, crumbling remains of the Panther, Undertaker is already setting his sights on another target, dodging bullets from its coaxial machine gun and using his grappling arm’s high-frequency blade to disable it. No one but Miles uses it, since its range is far too short to be effective. The second Tank type collapses, and Miles pumps another shell into its vulnerable turret.

Hobie feels the Handler’s shock through the Resonance. If the SP/DR’s designer saw this, they'd likely faint from disbelief. This unit was never meant for such combat. A rushed, fragile machine, the SP/DR was designed for suicide missions, not to fight Tank-class units. Seeing it defeat multiple tanks in such quick succession is nearly unimaginable. But this comes at a cost. Pushing the SP/DR to its limits will leave it trashed by battle’s end. Miles’ survival is nothing short of a miracle, and he’s survived five years using these methods. Still, it eases the load on Hobie and the others as they engage everything but the Panthers.

Hobie often thinks Miles is too good for this war.

With his unparallelled talent, he could wipe out the Legion with the right equipment. But his luck in battle contrasts with his misfortune elsewhere. He’s been born in the wrong era.

The fog of the OCTO-Flies clears, and sunlight shines, the remaining Legion retreat under the cover Skorpion bombardment. These cold, heartless machines feel no vengeance. Once casualties hit a threshold, their objective is deemed unachievable, and they fall back.

The setting sun casts its rays on Undertaker, standing among the wreckage of the Panther, like moonlight reflecting off the edge of an ancient blade.

*****

“So… how was your meeting with the famous Undertaker?” Peter says slyly, his voice both mocking and curious, as he sinks into the worn office chair stationed at his cluttered workstation. His fingers move swiftly over the keyboard, activating the medical observation with a beep.

“We’re chatting regularly,” Gwen replies optimistically, her tone bright as she finishes fastening the last button on her crisp white medical gown. “Nightly, in fact.”

“Nightly?” Peter repeats, his eyebrows shooting up in exaggerated surprise. He swivels in his chair to face her, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards. “Whaddya guys talk about?”

“Loads of stuff,” Gwen says proudly, as she crosses the room and takes a seat in the observation chair opposite him. Through the thick glass window separating them, her clear blue eyes watch Peter as he taps away at his keyboard, adding, “Some of it isn’t even mission related.”

Peter frowns slightly, the playful edge in his tone sharpening. “I thought I said not to get too attached.”

Gwen bristles but doesn’t lose her composure. “Well, he’s actually a pretty solid leader,” she retorts, her tone firm. She leans towards a nearby white side table, picking up a stack of creamy-white after-action reports submitted by Undertaker. Flipping through the thin pages, she continues, “Not to mention, he’s skilled as hell, even if occasionally… reckless.”

“Uh-huh,” Peter mumbles noncommittally, his attention split between her and the screen in front of him. The soft tapping of keys fills the room as he conducts the medical examination, though it’s clear he’s listening. Gwen continues her slightly awed compliments, unfazed, as she scans the reports, her tone softening slightly. “I don’t think he’s as scary as everyone says he is, either.”

Peter snorts, finally glancing up from his work. “Uhh, I dunno, I think you might be alone on that one.” His voice is a strange mix of biting sarcasm, stunned disbelief, and suspicion. His blue eyes flick between her and the monitor, trying to make sense of his friend’s strange words.

“By the way,” he says abruptly, spinning in his chair to peer at Gwen with newfound suspicion, like he’s trying to stare into her soul. “Your, uh, heartrate is… elevated…”

Gwen looks up from the reports, her cheeks tinged with a faint pink. “Oh, um… it’s probably because of these reports.” She clutches the stack closer to her chest, her tone shifting into a hurried explanation. “They’re all the same, and that’s stressful for a commander because… I won’t have all the latest information on the battlefield!”

Peter arches an eyebrow, his scepticism plain. “What were you saying about him being a solid leader earlier?” he asks sarcastically, turning back to his monitors to continue reading the assortment of data. “But besides that,” he continues after a moment, his tone softening. “You’re in good health. You’re free to go.”

*****

Heavy aims his handgun, staring down his target. Old ration cans with animals painted on them, sit lined up on an old ammunition crate. He squeezes the trigger and fires rapidly, the shots echoing throughout the courtyard. One connects, sending a can with a bear painted on it flying, whilst the others miss the mark entirely, bar a single ricochet which nudges a can painted with a rabbit.

“FUCK,” he shouts angrily. “Why can’t I just use my fucking machine guns!?”

“You’ve got fookin’ concrete for brains,” Cameron yells, seated on a wooden crate and watching Heavy from the sidelines. Standing next to him is Gayatri, who holds a clipboard to keep score. “It defeats the purpose, ye daft shit stain!”

“Ok,” Gayatri says, scribbling on the board. “One hit on the bear and a glancing hit on the rabbit. Heavy gets seven points.”

“Nah, that’s gotta be rigged!” Heavy shouts desperately. “I demand a recount!”

As the small trio devolve into arguing, Hobie and Miles sit twenty metres away on the steps of the barracks. Hobie watches the argument with amusement, a metal tray consisting of meat, salad and a small bowl of pumpkin soup sitting on his lap. Miles, as usual, sits quietly, reading, seemingly detached from the chaotic barbeque in the courtyard.

On days when they don’t have night missions or patrol, Spearhead Squadron has free time to do whatever they like. Since the scavenger party managed to bring back a lot of excess food, Miles and Hobie figured, with Gayatri and Pav’s help, they could throw a party of some kind to help ease the burden placed squarely on their teenage shoulders.

Munching on a carrot stick, Hobie appears thoughtful. “Whaddya think?” he abruptly asks, still watching the gang’s antics as Cameron accepts Heavy’s challenge to do better. “Point 208. Was Squeaky Clean right?”

Miles hums, briefly looking up from his book. “Probably would’ve been the best place for us to deploy if we left when she called.”

Hobie nods, thoughtfully. “Right?!” he says in agreement. “Teacher’s pet answer if you ask me. But… I suppose she’s more than just a silver spoon. Who woulda thought, ay?”

A shrill call interrupts their conversation.

“Hobie!” yells Heavy, pointing to freshly lined up cans. “Your turn!”

“Yeah, yeah, bloody ‘ell, I’m comin’” Hobie sighs, setting his tray to the side and standing. As he descends the cracked, concrete steps he says one last thing to Miles in a questioning voice, “How long do ya think she’ll be able to keep up?” 

Miles doesn’t respond. Suddenly, he hears the barrack’s door click shut and the pad of boots on the concrete.

“Good book?” Pav asks, kneeling next to Miles, brandishing tongs and freshly baked naan bread.

“It’s aight,” Miles says as Pav uses the tongs to unload a piece of bread onto Miles’ scrap filled tray. “Thanks.”

Like a shadow, Gayatri appears at the bottom of the steps. She awkwardly sways on the spot and sub-consciously tucks a strand of her brown hair behind her ear.

“Do you need some help handing out the rest of the bread, Pavitr?” she asks kindly. Pav rises and awkwardly blushes, holding the tray of naan like a vice, knuckles suddenly white and hands sweaty.

“Yes, please,” he stutters, excitedly. “That would be amazing.”

He passes the tray to Gayatri and the two split the bread between them, beginning to make the rounds. Miles’ eyes flick back to his book, continuing to read. He finds that if he can keep himself distracted, the voices and unwanted thoughts don’t bother him as much. However, as if the world itself wants to prevent him from consuming literature in peace, Heavy’s gruff voice calls out to him.

“Miles,” he tries to shout, mumbling his words as he’s shoved three pieces of naan bread into his mouth. “Your turn!”

He excitedly points to Spi-do who finishes stacking the target cans after Hobie’s attempt.

Miles grunts in annoyance. He swiftly draws his firearm with practiced ease and fires rapidly, seemingly not bothering to aim. However, his cold eyes are focussed and despite the distance, every bullet finds its mark, sending each can flying one after another, from top to bottom, with loud dings!

“Are you fucking serious?!” Heavy shouts in disbelief, spraying mashed pieces of naan bread all over Cameron’s face and shirt. Spi-do, meanwhile, does a little dance in celebration of its master’s success.

As swiftly as before, Miles smoothly sheathes his handgun wordlessly, determined to finally finish the chapter he’s been stuck on since yesterday. However, as if the world truly does despise this lonely Reaper, the Para-RAID buzzes and flashes, connecting to all members of Spearhead.

“Can’t have shit in Detroit,” Miles grumbles to himself.

“All units,” Handler One says. “Can I have a word, guys?”

“Yeah, sure,” Miles says. “Oh, and by the way, good work today.”

“Thanks,” she chirps happily. “You all did great as well.”

Miles’s gaze briefly flicks to the members of Spearhead, who all seem to have mixed reactions. Hobie smirks, leaning against the courtyard wall. Phin appears apprehensive and slightly concerned. Ganke looks bored, whilst Danika, who sits next to him, smiles softly. Most merely turn their Para-RAID’s off and go back to what they’re doing, uninterested in the chat between the higher-ups.

Regardless of the silence from everyone but Undertaker, Gwen presses on, determined to make a positive impression.

“Sorry to interrupt during your free time,” she says, apologetically.

“It’s fine,” Miles responds quickly. “We’re just killin’ time right now.”

“Right…” Gwen says slowly. “Also, Undertaker, sorry ‘bout this, but I’m gonna have to give you a spray.”

“Oh, yeah?” Miles says, almost flirtatiously. “Why would that be?”

“I was reading your post-combat reports since you were made Captain of Spearhead Squadron,” she says, briefly pausing, trying to figure out how best to say it. “And they were all the same.”

Miles lifts his head up from his book as something almost akin to guilt briefly flashes in his eyes.

“Why are you so interested in what we’re doing on the frontlines?” he questions, deciding he may as well not try to defend himself, implying his guilt. “Isn’t it just a waste of time?”

He throws the last statement out almost like he’s trying to test the Handler, to challenge her. She rises to it.

“I get that most Republic officers don’t read ‘em, but I do. I’m not mad or anything since it’s our fault, but it’s my job to help you guys, so I will,” she says. “From here on out, please do the reports properly.”

“I’m balls at reading and writing,” Miles sighs, tilting his head down.

Pav snorts and laughs to himself.

“Yeah,” Ganke snickers, in a mocking tone, backing up Miles’ bluff. “It’s not like we got schooling in the internment camps.”

“Oh, shoot, sorry…” Gwen says quickly, feeling herself flush at her stupidity.

“Don’t let ‘em get to you, Handler One,” Danika says kindly, shaking her head at the guys and smugly taking a bite of naan. “It’s not that he can’t do it, it’s just that he’s too lazy to, right Undertaker?”

“Undertaker…” Gwen sighs in disappointment. “Send me reports for all of your missions up to this point.”

“Fine, fine,” Miles says, relenting and bending to the silvery voices will. “Will footage from the gun camera be aight?”

“No,” Gwen replies, strongly. “Handwrite them.”

Miles snaps his book shut. Danika gasps in shock and starts choking on naan bread, harshly coughing.

“I’m so sorry!” she manages to choke out between rasps as Ganke whacks her back. Miles merely raises his hand and waves her off, apathetic as ever.

“If we can analyse them, we can find counters,” the handler continues, unfazed. “And as an ace unit, your combat records are super useful. We can lower attrition across the whole battlefield.”

Miles sighs and stands, stretching his arms and fingers.

“So, help me, please,” she pleads, her smooth voice strained, yet determined. “We can even lower casualties in your unit.”

“To be young again,” Hobie says wistfully, looking up at the night sky.

“Oh, well, actually,” Gwen says. “I’m about the same age as you guys.”

Anyone still listening sighs whimsically. Hobie’s comment is right on the money.

“Is that so?” Hobie questions slowly, glancing at Miles, who still wears his signature blank expression as he makes his way to his quarters, presumably to get started on the mountain of reports. 

“Anyway,” Gwen says. “How long have you all been in the military?”

“Most of us have been here for ‘bout four years,” Danika responds, finally over her coughing fit.

“Undertaker’s been fighting the longest. He’s been here for five,” Hobie says.

“So, Undertaker’s almost done with his service, huh?” Gwen questions impressed and excited. “Is there anything you want to do once you leave the army and become a Republic citizen again, Undertaker?”

“Uhhh,” Miles says awkwardly, his tone lost and confused. “Never really thought about it, honestly.”

“Oh, ok,” Gwen says, keeping her voice positive and bubbly. “Well, you might wanna start having a think. You might come up with something!”

As Miles walks to his room, under the yellow glow of the old, faded hallway lights, he smiles. For the first time in years, a genuine, true smile flashes across his normally stoic, apathetic face.

“Maybe you’re right,” he says. “Handler One.”