On the battered wall screen of the mess hall, an ancient piece of Earth footage played on a loop. A spacecraft descended from the sky, was caught by a pair of capture arms, and lifted up like a long pair of tongs plucking a hot dog from a grill—awkward, inevitable, and, considering it could have ended in a fireball, almost disappointingly ordinary.

  The announcer called it the first time.

  A date stamp appeared in the corner. The feed cut to a map, then to a lattice of tiny points of light: the birth of Starlink, a global web rising like scaffolding around the world.

  Around Jack, trays clattered, and voices roared. To the soldiers, it was a museum exhibit, an excuse for jokes. To Jack, it was a reminder: machines do the saving. Humans are just passengers bolted to the frame, praying the fasteners hold.

  He had been on base less than a day and already felt those measuring looks crawling over him.

  The battalion commander’s “welcome” speech still echoed in his ears—once the words were stripped away, the contempt underneath was unmistakable. Jack figured his name had been crossed off long before his boots ever touched ferrocrete.

  Captain Rashid of First Company—the Bulldogs—met him on the parade ground, wearing a smile that never seemed to leave his face. They shook hands, the grip strong enough to rattle tendons.

  “At ease,” Rashid had said. “Out here, no one cares how shiny your boots are. They care how you learn to stand when you’re flat on your back.”

  That afternoon, Rashid dragged him through the barracks, pointing out the mess hall, the supply depot, and the mech bays spreading outward like iron honeycombs. Everywhere Jack looked, things were in motion—welding torches throwing sparks, loaders rumbling past with crates of ammunition, exhausted mechanics sleeping beneath machines that could flatten them at any moment, utterly unaware.

  “This isn’t a base,” Rashid muttered as they walked. “It’s a furnace. People go in—only smoke comes out. You’ll get used to it.”

  By nightfall, the barracks air was thick with the smell of solvent and boot leather. Soldiers lay sprawled on their bunks, trading rumors in low voices. Layers of uniforms—symbols of rank and sanctioned violence—were stripped off and hung at the head of beds, revealing nothing more than human bodies hungry for warmth.

  Some men passed around photos of family, cats, and dogs, holding them like priceless relics. Others hid under blankets on video calls with girlfriends, voices lowered, trembling with tenderness. Some buried themselves in ebooks, trying to escape the gravity of reality through fiction.

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  What they wanted was simple: a little warmth, a little normal life.

  But on the invisible chessboard above them, they were no longer husbands, fathers, or sons. They were pieces in a game between God and Crowley—the Reaper. No one cared about a chess piece’s temperature. The players only cared when it would be sacrificed, and whether it could buy a sliver of tactical advantage before being taken.

  An unseen hand was pushing them toward a script already written—the final act inked in blood.

  Jack lay on his bunk, staring at a crack in the ceiling shaped like a scar, pretending to listen to the laughter around him. His fingers twitched unconsciously, craving the feel of a cold, honest wrench. But there was nothing here to fix—except broken lives.

  He whispered to himself, half spell, half prayer:

  “Even on a timeline doomed to be forgotten, where war never ends—fix the mechs. Live hard. If I’m a chess piece, then I’ll play my role through the final scene.”

  She appeared at dusk.

  Through a slit in the blackout curtain, Jack caught a glimpse of her: the female lieutenant who had driven him here, now standing beside a recon transport. Straight-backed, her uniform fit as if it had been tailored only for her. She was speaking with another officer—tall, rigid, the white band on his cap gleaming under the floodlights.

  When her gaze swept in his direction, Jack let the curtain fall.

  Earlier in the barracks, he’d heard a name passed along the bunks like a canteen: Reyna.

  That was the lieutenant’s name. Rumor had it her rank came courtesy of family connections.

  Jack rolled over. The noise in the barracks was getting to him. He missed his little workshop—his own world, even if it held only himself.

  Sleep wouldn’t come that night. Outside, the parade ground shook with the constant coming and going of mechs, the sound beating against his chest like a mechanical tide. It seeped through the walls, into the bones of the building.

  He thought again of that ancient video—tongs lifting a hot dog—and how every successful capture nudged spaceflight one step forward.

  Up in the sky, a clever piece of hardware could turn disaster into a safe landing.

  Down here, those silent mechs sustained a human life one hour at a time—and the price was another hour, and another, and another.

  He laughed quietly in the dark. On paper, he belonged here. Paperwork kept you out of prison, kept food on your tray. But the looks people gave you were another matter entirely.

  When dawn broke, the parade ground felt strangely new—and yet a crack had opened in the air.

  News traveled faster than the mess hall line: the new lieutenant had caught the attention of someone she shouldn’t have. Officers exchanged glances. Sergeants wore the careful expressions they got when a routine drill was about to turn into a lesson.

  By midmorning, one corner of the courtyard had cleared out. No orders were posted. No briefing announced. It was just… empty. A space waiting.

  Rashid found Jack by the hangar doors, a tin mug of coffee in his hand, weariness glinting in his eyes.

  “Take a walk with me,” he said.

  They stepped into the light. Somewhere ahead, a crowd was already beginning to gather.

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