The mess hall had been packed—Vivi and I had spent five minutes in line, scarfed down lunch in two. The food had been good enough not to complain, and access fast enough not to matter. Mercenary life shaved time like that—get in, get out, get moving. Vivi licked their spoon clean, made a face, and tossed the tray on the return rack like it had personally offended them. “Better than rehydrated paste,” they muttered. “Not by much.”

  I rolled my eyes and kept my jab to myself. I wasn't feeling it today, my flare-up earlier had taken far more energy than I'd care to admit and the short nap hadn't really changed that. We were already moving, boots echoing in rhythm down the corridor. It was muscle memory by now—lunch, rec room, wait for orders. Just another beat in the ongoing dance.

  Alpha Squad’s rec room was tucked into one of the older wings of the HQ, complete with cracked paint, a semi-functional fan, and the faint smell of sweat and grease that no one had ever quite managed to scrub out. We could've gotten a new rec room assigned if we'd wanted, and there was more than one person among the higher-ups trying to get their model squad into something a little more befitting of our status. Not that we cared for it, we'd rather stay in our comfortable little den. Except Paul, I reckon, I thought to myself, snorting. Vivi gave me a look, one faded-purple eyebrow raised. "Care to let me in on the joke?"

  I shook my head with a small laugh. "Just… thinking of how often we've gotten requests to move rec rooms so far and how I highly doubt our run-down abode is quite up to the Vexwell brat's rich-kid-standards."

  My friend laughed with me and gave me a little shove. "Hey, be nice to blondie. Just because he hates anything that isn't human, happens to be the heir to the Vexwell family's trade empire and has gotten his standard uniform retailored to look more expensive doesn't mean he's a bad guy."

  We stared at each other as we walked. And stared. And stared. And—Vivi cracked first, busting out laughing. "Haaah shit, yeah no you're right he's a dick.", they tittered, pretending to brush dust off their shoulder.

  We managed to get somewhat serious again by the time we reached the door to our squad's room. Inside, the usual chaos awaited. The place was in full squad sprawl. Reaper and Bear were tossing a heavy ball back and forth with way too much force for a room this size. I briefly remembered the time our previous medic missed a throw and the ball took out Crone’s teacup. The squad had faced down death before. But I’d never seen the old elf look closer to making good on the threat of taking a man apart with his own medical tweezers than she had that day. Pretty sure she still held that grudge. Really, if our medic hadn't gotten himself run through by a curse-blighted undead she would've made that threat reality, too.

  Speaking of, Crone was posted up in what we referred to as her throne—an armchair with stuffing bleeding out of one side and an illegible runic painting on the back. Teacup balanced in one hand, those massive black eyes of hers tracking the room with what I'd grown to recognize was a hunter's threat assessment. Not even among those legally considered her equals she was truly relaxed, though she did present a rock among the surrounding chaos. Stillness with legs. Elves were unsettling at the best of times, but our sniper made it an art form. A thin column of steam rose from her teacup as she took a slow sip, regarding Vivi and I with the approximation of a fond smile. After having lived with her and hers for a while, I'd reckon my half-devil friend and I would always be her favorites among the squad. It helped that her grandkids had all but adopted me as their big sibling, related or not.

  Cam had claimed the couch. Or melted into it. Hard to tell, really. One foot twitched to a beat only it could hear, its head tilted back at an impossible angle over the wrecked armrest, wooden arms folded over its midriff, where its shirt rode up just enough to show off the green-tinted armor plating where a stomach should be, clutching its datapad. Cam in full decompression mode. And, unfortunately, there was also Paul. The Rookie. The Cunt. Sat scowling in the corner with one hand on his jaw like touching it might undo the shiner I’d gifted him last time he opened his mouth sideways. He caught my eye the moment I stepped in and shot me a look like he thought he could kill me with it.

  Vivi, diplomatic as ever, raised a fist and mimed a right hook.

  Paul’s scowl deepened.

  It might’ve been cute—if he hadn’t been a racist rich boy playing soldier with his daddy’s money. But alas. I waved a half-hearted hello to the room, then dropped into the seat across from Hel. Before I could even get out a greeting, a cup of tea appeared in front of me, conjured with all the quiet grace of the ancient predator she was.

  I gave the room a lazy wave and dropped into the chair beside Crone. The second my ass hit the worn fabric, a teacup appeared in front of me. No words. No fanfare. Just warmth and comfort. “Thanks, Hel,” I murmured.

  The elf didn’t look up. “You're the only one who appreciates it among these barbarians.” I took a sip and let the heat burn the tired out of my bones. I'd never figured out whether the tea had any magic, rejuvenating properties or whether it was just really good tea, and the old markswoman wouldn't tell me. If she weren't nigh-immortal she'd probably take that secret to the grave in a few centuries.

  "Hey, don't call us barbarians! Unlike the kid and maybe Reaper, none of us are human in here", I quipped half-heartedly after another sip. The old elf shook her head and responded "It appears your funnier half is rubbing off, else you wouldn't be quipping like them."

  Vivi for their part flopped across the couch like gravity had doubled, one leg over Cam’s, head upside down, practically breathing in its ear. “What’re we vibin’ to?” they stage-whispered, making the half-orc cyborg jump and near bump its head. “Private,” it hissed, fumbling with its datapad. Vivi cackled and didn’t move, perfectly comfortable where they lay. I'd long learned that personal space was more of a suggestion around Vivi, and now that Jin was in my life I had even less of it. Not that I minded, of course. I rolled my eyes at the ensuing banter, but the corner of my mouth pulled up. It was nice, for a second. Familiar. Like the world hadn’t been cracking around the edges lately.

  Helanaestra’s voice cut through the space between us, soft enough not to carry. “She’s safe with my family, you know.”

  My fingers tightened around the warm cup. “I know.”

  “She’ll be happier than you think.” Her tone wasn’t comforting—it was factual, didn't need to be anything else. "The kids love her, Aen will keep an eye on her, and you'll be back with your mate before she needs to feed again."

  I didn’t respond right away. Just stared into the swirling steam of the tea, breathing its calming scent. “I know, I know. Just... worrying, y'know? She doesn't exactly do well with separation.” Mentally, I added "As I learned the hard way."

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  Her face twisted in what I'd grown to understand was a smile among her kind. "She’ll be too busy getting mothered and dragged into crafts and half-feral adventure games and chases around the garden to sulk. She’ll be fine.” I thanked her with a nod, which she returned in kind. We drifted into low chatter—gossip about which squads got pulled into which disaster zones, how long the coffee machine would survive this time before Cam would have to fix it again, whether someone had stolen Crone’s fancy sugar again (they had, and they would regret it) and how we missed some of the foods that were hard to get in this very human-centric country.

  I noticed I could no longer hear thumping of the ball Reaper and Bear had been throwing, just in time for both of us to catch Reaper stepping to the front of the room. Our squad lead cleared his throat. “Alright. Save your flirting and your fistfights. Briefing time.” Viper sat up. Breaker put the ball down and leaned against the wall. Watcher disconnected the music with a flick of a finger. The rookie remained in his corner, arms crossed and scowling as ever. And Crone? She refilled my tea cup.

  Reaper stepped to the table, tapped the projector. The display flickered on. Blueprints and aerial shots snapped into place. A mansion. Big, sprawling, too rich for its own good. “Target is the Rellmont estate,” he said, crossing his arms as the image shifted. “Not too different from Vexwell's family, I reckon.” That got a laugh out of Breaker. Paul didn’t flinch, but the corner of his mouth twitched downward. I didn't know you could double-scowl, but the brat was proving otherwise.

  Reaper continued, voice flat. “Public face is a collection of eccentric art dealers. Real story’s uglier. Intel suggests a trafficking ring—magical and biological. Living assets, former living assets. Creatures. People. Enslaved, enchanted, displayed.”

  The screen changed again—statues that looked too real. A painting of a dryad in a gilded cage. A half-finished sculpture that made my stomach turn.

  Breaker grunted. “So we torch a gallery.”

  “Almost,” Reaper said. “We bag the family and secure the perimeter. Once it’s clear, Cleanup and Artifact Divisions move in. Nothing leaves the property except us and the survivors.”

  Paul finally piped up. “And we’re doing that with seven people?” He didn’t say it like a question. More like a protest. I didn’t even deign to turn. Vivi did, teeth bared in that sweet, venomous way of theirs.

  “If you hadn’t bought your way in, you’d know seven’s all we need.” Paul’s chair scraped just slightly as he half-rose. Reaper’s gaze snapped over before he could blink.

  “Sit down,” our squad leader barked. Paul sat. Mouth clenched tight. Pride bleeding out in silence.

  “I vote we start calling him Buy-In,” Watcher offered casually. “Fits better than ‘Paul’.”

  That actually got a snort out of Reaper. “Noted.” Paul, to his credit, didn’t rise to it. Smart, for once.

  “Anyway,” Reaper went on, clicking through a few more overlays—security placements, route projections, internal schematics. “This one’s off the books. No PR strings. No diplomacy theater. We go in loud. Standard loadouts. Armor. Preferred weapons. No restrictions. No kill orders withheld. Anyone who doesn’t stand down is hostile. Clear?” A round of nods. No hesitation.

  Breaker leaned back with a whistle. “Helmet time.”

  “Krios' tits am I happy to hear that,” I muttered. “I’m tired of risking headshots for politics.”

  “Your head’s thick enough,” Breaker shot back.

  “Yeah, but it’s anti-magic, not anti-projectile” I returned.

  Cam added, deadpan, “Technically, both your heads are below spec for deflecting high-velocity rounds. Recommend helmets, since we're on the topic anyway.”

  “See?” I said, gesturing. “Science agrees with me.”

  “Science also thinks Paul should stay in the van,” Vivi muttered.

  “Buy-In,” I corrected, and Vivi giggled adorably.

  Reaper clapped once, sharply. “Focus up.”

  The map flicked off. The room dimmed again. Everything fell into place like dominoes right before the fall.

  “Gear up. We leave in thirty.”

  Five minutes later, the squad was bathed in red.

  Not blood—yet—but the soft, functional glow of overhead strip lights bouncing off matte black armor and crimson detailing. The gear lockers hissed open one by one, the bay humming with the low murmur of arming rituals. The stink of polish, oil and incense was comforting.

  I rolled my shoulders and clicked the final armor piece into place over my bodyglove, the heavy plating setting in like a second skeleton. Thick, reinforced, rune-threaded. This was built to stop hell, and looked the part, too.

  The ritual of gearing up felt different before a real mission. Not training. Not community defense. Not a fucking parade in riot gear. Hell, even the last mission which had brought Jin into my life had been in gods-cursed policing gear. I hated that uniform with a passion. It reminded me too much of this city's fucking cops. But this? This was what we were for.

  I picked up my helmet and ran my gloved thumb along a newer scratch on the metal headcrest. I'd need to get the runes carved into it redone soon. Pulling the helmet on, I breathed a touch of magic into the runes on the inside of the mask as it settled onto my face, and the runes quickly turned into a heavily distorted image. The many lenses on the face of my helmet each focussed on different details of the world, including spirits, ley lines and infrared. Breaker's helmet could only hope to imitate what mine did, but at least his didn't strain his brain the entire time. Well-worth the upsides, though.

  “Tats up,” I said, and the comms clicked once in reply.

  To my left, Breaker was already sealing his chestplate over bulked arms. His kit looked like it had been grown around him. Not a scratch on the red trim—he took care of his things, even if he didn’t take great care of himself. His magitech rifle hissed as he loaded a fresh core, blue spellfire glowing like bottled lightning.

  “Breaker up,” he added, low and steady.

  “Yeah, yeah,” muttered Viper from the lockers across from us. They twisted a blade into place on their thigh—gold flashing, then gone—and buckled their armor into final shape. Light kit, flexible. Meant to move, meant to kill before anyone realized they'd seen them.

  Helmet on, twin lenses glowing like devil-eyes. “Viper ready to hunt.”

  Watcher was calibrating the little quadrupedal turret drone, fingers moving like clockwork. It barely looked up as it slotted a charm into the drone’s relay socket. The datapad on Watcher's arm blinked blue, syncing with the war machines.

  Once the drones were fired up, Watcher returned to its locker, attaching the data relay pack to its spine. Cables slid into hidden ports, twitching like veins finding a pulse. Its helmet was already in place, a smooth-black visor with no visible expression. A gray shawl hung from around its neck, the only remnant of its orcish home. “Aerial drone online. Turret drone online. Network sync at 94%. Good enough.”

  “Cam’s got all the toys,” Viper piped up. “How’s the murder-fairy-wing?”

  “Operational. And that's not what it's called.” Watcher returned, annoyed. “1-5, systems green."

  "Like your face", Vivi added, ever helpful. Our collective groan rang through the comms a heartbeat later.

  Reaper walked in last, fully suited. His armor looked older than it should’ve, like it had been reforged too many times. The chainmail shirt beneath the ballistic armor shimmered faintly with containment magic, holding back the curse slowly turning him into one of Yiserith's warrior-clerks. His helmet’s lenses flared on, along with the twin headlamps.

  “1-1 on deck,” he said. “Roll call. Sound off.” I clicked my mic. “1-2 ready.” “1-3 ready,” Breaker echoed. “1-4,” continued Viper, spinning a knife between their fingers before sliding it home. “1-5, confirmed.” Crone sighed, caressing the broken war-axe on her hip. "1-6, ready for action."

  We all silently turned to the last locker.

  The rookie was finishing the final strap on his medic pack, His armor was standard-issue light, but marked up with gray-white medical identifiers no one else wore. The golden sidearm strapped to his chestplate annoyed me just looking at it.

  He slid his helmet on slowly, like it still didn’t feel right. Two glowing red lenses blinked on. “1-7 ready to roll out,” he finished.

  “Try not to drop that pistol when someone screams,” Vivi muttered under their breath.

  “Or throw up in the helmet,” I added. “Hard to clean.”.

  Breaker, however, smacked Buy-In's shoulder in cameraderie and told him to get ready for his first mission.

  "Everyone's ready." I relayed to Reaper as was my duty, no matter the fact he heard us all. Protocol was protocol, even for me.

  "Alpha Squad! Follow me.", Reaper declared, walking past us towards the door.