"The King, the Poet, and... the Sword," Harold said with a chuckle, rolling a cigarette between his fingers. Taking a deep drag, he exhaled a plume of smoke before continuing.
"A king wields power, a poet wields truth, and a sword wields death. But when peace flourishes, the sword becomes a dull blade."
He scoffed, throwing the cigarette to the ground and stomping it out with his boot.
Behind him, Nathan's voice rang out. "Oh shit, boys! Looks like we got a poet over here. Who knew Harold turned into a pacifist?"
The men burst into laughter as they geared up for one last mission. Harold shot Nathan a smirk.
"Come on, Nathan. It's not like you've ever thought about anything smart with that bird-sized brain of yours."
"Oh, fuck off, old man," Nathan retorted, grinning.
Harold just smirked wider. "I'm just saying, most of us here won't be in the service much longer. Jobs will be hard to come by." He lit another cigarette and took a long drag before exhaling.
"The people love their soldiers only when the enemy stands at their door. Once the threat fades, so too does their gratitude."
His gaze shifted down the hall, locking onto a man standing at the end. The man was in his mid-30s, his body a roadmap of scars and bullet wounds. A jagged set of scratch marks ran across his shoulder, and his rugged buzz cut framed a face hardened by years of conflict.
"Isn't that right, Captain?" Harold called out.
The man didn't respond at first, his mind seemingly elsewhere.
"Ah, Captain—"
"Yes, Harold. I can hear you," the man interrupted, his voice low and steady. In his arms was an old, worn-out TN-90 rifle. His fingers absentmindedly traced the engraved number 737 before he racked the weapon.
"And you don't have to call me 'Captain' anymore, Harold," he added with a sigh. Turning to face the men, his calm demeanor belied the turmoil etched into his scarred face. An old wound had narrowly missed the corner of his mouth, and his left eye had been replaced with a mechanical marvel that hummed faintly with energy.
"At this point, it's all pleasantries," Samuel said.
"Aye, Samuel," Nathan chimed in. "But what do you think about civilian life, you handsome bugger?" He laughed, though there was a hint of unease in his tone, as if he were betraying an unspoken worry about what lay ahead.
Samuel paused, lifting a hand to his chin. "We did our duties to the utmost conclusion," he said finally, his voice measured.
He began walking among the men, each of them falling silent as they listened.
"As the record stands, war isn't a means we should let outstay its welcome. It's a means to settle a dispute, once and for all."
Samuel stopped in front of a mirror near the end of the hall. What stared back at him was a bruised, weathered man. He took a deep breath, steadying himself before turning back to the group.
"What we fought for will be forgotten one day. From now on, we fight our own battles. But we are soldiers."
He faced the men fully now, his voice rising with conviction.
"WE ARE THE SPEARS OF DEFIANCE!"
In unison, the men shouted, "HOO-RAH!"
"WE ARE THE OLD GUARD THAT STOOD AT THE GATES OF ALTUM!"
"HOO-RAH!"
"WE ARE THE BANE OF THE STORM SIEGE!"
"HOO-RAH!"
"AND WE ARE THE SPEAR THAT STRUCK INTO POLARIS!"
"HOO-RAH!"
Samuel tapped his foot to the side, the men immediately snapping to attention, their feet 30 degrees apart. He stomped his foot, curling his hand into a fist and placing it over his chest. The men mirrored his actions with precision.
"I know times will be tough, and everyone may forget... but we are soldiers. We adapt to whatever shitshow life throws at us, and we walk it out with a drink in hand."
Some of the men chuckled, their spirits lightened by his words.
Samuel continued, his tone softening. "Men, I hope as we accompany the delegation for the signing of Lingua Franca, we walk with pride, knowing that in the end..."
He smiled, his voice carrying a rare warmth.
"We made it."
They packed up and readied their gear: M-9 laser rifles, blast shields, Type-305 Heavy Power Armor, the lighter Type-306 models, and gravity grenades. The men moved with practiced efficiency, strapping on weapons and checking their suits.
Move out!"
BANG!
Samuel slams his fist into a side panel, the impact rattling the room as the metal plates shift with a harsh screech. The room begins to hum, its systems powering up.
The locks disengage with a hiss as the platform rises. Slowly, it ascends, the weight of the machinery creaking beneath them. As they reach the top, they're met by two other squads.
"Well, look who finally decided to show up," a voice calls out.
A man from the other squad steps forward, sneering. "Church Hill squad, huh? You boys look like you've been through hell and back."
Harold steps up with a smirk. "And you lot look more suited for civilian life than the battlefield."
"Oi, chuckle nuts!"
A voice cuts through the air, one of the men from behind them.
A figure clad in nimble but battered armor stands by the carrier, his stance unwavering. His armor resembles that of a samurai—sleek and angular, but with a more intimidating, modern twist. The edges are jagged, reinforced for brutal efficiency rather than ceremonial elegance.
"You better get your ass over here before the expedition moves out," he growls, his voice carrying a weight of authority that brooks no argument.
The men move swiftly into position, securing themselves into the carriers and locking into their harnesses.
"Is the Mech division in position?" Samuel asks, glancing toward the man in the nimble armor.
"Already engaged, Samuel," the man responds, his voice steady, eyes scanning the horizon.
Samuel taps his ionic shield, the sound sharp and metallic. "Paper-thin cannon fodder, I see."
The man chuckles darkly, his helmet tilting slightly as he meets Samuel's gaze. "Sure looks like it. Just don't die on me, old man."
Samuel smirks, fingers still gripping his shield. "I'll try to keep up, kid."
Samuel looked around at the men, their faces tight with nervousness, a few fidgeting in their straps. The hum of the carrier filled the silence, but something broke through the sound of a low, steady voice.
One of the younger soldiers began to sing softly, his voice shaky at first but growing stronger with each note.
He was joined by another, then another, until the entire squad sang in unison, a battle hymn of sorts. The song was old passed down through generations of soldiers but in that moment, it was a rallying cry, a way to steady their nerves and remind themselves why they fought.
Samuel let the song wash over him, his gaze drifting across the men. There was fear in their eyes, but there was something else too resolve.
The music grew louder, echoing through the steel walls of the carrier, as if the very ship was alive with the weight of their shared purpose.
"Look sharp, boys," Samuel's voice rang out, cutting through the rising tension. "We're making it to Artemis and back. This is just another mission just another step HORRA."
In unison, the men shouted, their voices strong, breaking the tension in the air.
"HOORA!"
Samuel stood still, eyes fixed on the distant horizon beyond the carrier's viewport. The vast expanse of stars stretched endlessly before him, the beauty of it all momentarily stealing his breath away.
For a moment, he allowed himself to take it in—the calm before the storm. The quiet before the battle.
"I guess it's time," he muttered softly, almost to himself.
He turned back to face the men, his expression hardening. There was no turning back now. The mission was set. Artemis awaited.