Lance watched through a viewport as the distance between the Union-class dropship and his home world grew. He'd never been off world before, never seen the stars unobscured by atmosphere, or by city lights. He'd never seen them surround him the way they do now. Even then, his attention remained on his home, shrinking behind the dropship thrusters. A part of him longed for it to draw closer again, to step off the dropship and find himself in the life he knew two years ago. The life he had before his mother got sick, before that storm. That God damn storm! As far as Lance was concerned, that was the night his life ended. But, this dropship, the company that controls it, Ward's Cavaliers, has given him a second chance.

The communicator Commander Ward gave him chimed once. His queue to get his ass to the something called the Tactical Operations Room for what he assumed was some sort of orientation. Him and Michael both. He moved through the tight corridors of the dropship. The air smelled stale, sterile. A scent that assaulted Lance's senses and left him queasy if he breathed too deep through his nose.

He met with Michael just outside the TOR, who forced himself to muster his mask once more. At least, by now, Lance was pretty sure it was the mask. The room itself was a circular chamber. The walls were lined with consoles, and there was a large rectangular table taking up the middle. Above the table was a holographic display of the dropship. Above it was a display of the Ward's Cavaliers emblem.

"Quite a setup you've got here." Michael could not hide the fact that he was impressed. 

"Not really." An old Scotsman's voice rumbled from the left side of the room. "It's just maps, scanners, sensors, and comms... Any knave in the Inner Sphere could keep these consols runnin'."

The Commander interrupted, saying, "Trephore, Slate, this is Haiden. He's my chief MechTech, and from this moment forward, your boss."

"You two lads best stay the hell out of me way, understood?"

The two boys nodded. The Commander continued, "Trephore. You've said that you know how to walk a 'Mech. I assume you were referring to industrial 'Mechs?"

"Yessir."

"There's a lot more to being a MechWarrior than what you know about walking those. Your training starts now. Cassandra will be your trainer."

"What the fuck?!" A young woman's voice carved through the dropship engine's thrums and the soft beeping from the consoles lining the walls. A voice laced with venomous distain. "We did not discuss this, Dad."

'Dad?' Lance thought. 'That man's a father? Explains the sunny attitude, that's for sure. 

"That's because," The Commander continued, his voice laced with condescension. "I didn't want to deal with your bitching."

Lance's gaze found Cassandra Ward. She stood with a posture as stiff and solid as an I-beam, and yet with the lethal grace of an old Terran leopard. Copper red hair cascaded down the side of her face in an asymmetric cut that had its left side cut short. Her piercing gaze was identical to that of the Commander's.

'Well, fuck me.' Lance thought. 'The hottest thing I've ever seen in my life is my Commander's daughter... Shit. That ain't happening.' 

Cassandra tried and failed to contest her father, displaying no interest in training Lance, or Michael. "Fine..." Her once venomous tone was reduced to a grumble. She strode over to Lance, lifted her gaze to mere inches from his, making him feel small despite his greater stature. "But I am going to make you regret ever coming here, got it? "

Lance forced himself to maintain his calm, "Got it." Cassandra forced her way past the boys, carrying Lance's gaze with her. As a sense of self-preservation returns to him, he snaps his gaze back to the Commander. Commander Ward noticed where his gaze lies. 'He might be a problem.' he thought, but ultimately opted to let the glance slide... For now.

"For what it's worth," Another man's voice spoke from the shadows. It was suave, gentle, yet mildly aged. When he stepped out of the shadows, he did so with a sort of precision and fluidity one does not expect from a common mercenary. "I'm glad to have you on our lance," A brief pause fell over the room. "What did you say your name was?"

"Edmund Trephore. My friends just call me Lance." Subconsciously, he tried to mimic the man's tone.

"Ironic." A soft chuckle escaped the man. "My name is Jacob. Jacob Thorn. I pilot the Trebuchet you worked on." Jacob shook hands with the boys and left the TOR shortly thereafter.

"Is that everyone, sir?" Michael asked.

"No..." It was clear the Commander was agitated. "Erik was supposed to be here."

"Erik?"

"Another 'MechWarrior. We picked him up a couple months before coming to Kathil III. He's a descent MechWarrior when we need him to be, but off the field, he's a bit problematic. He pilots the Centurion in Mech Bay 4. The only unscathed 'Mech we had before arriving at your world."

This sounded odd to Lance. Usually, if any 'Mech gets involved in any battle against other 'Mechs, or even tanks, and infantry, they don't walk away unscathed. Especially frontline 'Mechs like the Centurion. The only way it could have sustained no damage was if it wasn't involved at all.

"How come he wasn't a part of your last mission?" Lance's confusion shown through, in spite of his best efforts.

"He was grounded. Started picking fights with Haiden. The way I look at it, if he's picking fights off the battlefield, he doesn't need any fights on the field."

Lance and Michael both saw how this Erik could be a problem. Before either of them could inquire further, the Commander spoke, "Report to Haiden in the 'Mech bays. Dismissed."

The two boys fumbled their way out of the TOR and into the corridor. As they marched through the dropship, Michael noticed the distance in Lance's gaze. A gaze that betrayed deep thoughts, and the curl at the corner of his lip betrayed some sort of satisfaction.

"You're in a good mood." Said Michael.

Lance's reply was delayed, unfocused. Suddenly, it clicked for Michael. "No, no, no," Though his brow curled in frustration, Michael's voice devolved into a strained chuckle. "Don't tell me you're..." Exasperation stole the words from his throat. "For her?! The Commander's daughter?!"

Lance nearly tackled Michael, waving his hands in front of him in a somatic demand for silence accompanied by a strained whisper. "Shut the fuck up, Mikey!" A long pause was needed for Lance to regain his calm. "Do you actually think I'm that stupid?"

A swift, deadpan "Yes." cracked from Michael's lips, shattering Lance's pride for that one moment, and reminded him of his blatant stupidity over the past two years. In that regard, as it related to his own rhetorical query, Lance had no leg to stand on.

"Well, I'm not." Lance maintained his whisper, as if the Commander were looming over his shoulder. "So, she's got a nice pair of eyes. She'd probably kill me if I tried anything. And if she didn't, I know for sure the Commander would."

Michael did not deny the likely fatal mistake that pursuing Ms. Ward would be, but called out another aspect of Lance's statement. "You're sure it's the eyes you're after?"

Lance simply scoffed and moved on, unwilling to fight this battle any further. It simply was not worth the effort. Michael took Lance's withdrawal as a decisive win.

Just before they made it to the 'Mech Bays, the two passed by a man whose mere presence struck them as wrong. His stance and stride seemed predatory. His eyes were dark, and the skin beneath them was deathly grey. Those dark eyes locked onto the boys, and a feral grin split the man's face, exposing teeth too white, considering what the rest of him looked like. When he approached, Lance wanted to reach for a pistol he didn't have.

His voice was this smug rasp, threatening to verge into a growl. One that regardless of how "peaceful" the intent or statement may be, had a hostile undertone. "You two boys the new MechTechs?"

Michael took a step back, as did Lance. Though, Lance's step was smaller. "Who's asking?" asked Lance, still reaching for an imaginary pistol he wished so dearly were real.

"Erik," the man chuckled through his rasp. "So, you guys fresh from the intros?"

"Yeah," Lance kept caution in his voice. Michael took another step back. "Commander said you were supposed to be there."

"Commander says a lot of things. Example, he says this is his dropship. Spoiler alert: It fucking isn't."

"Let me guess, it's yours?" Condescension laced Lance's tone.

"Oh, hell no. I wouldn't know what to do with one even if it were." Erik followed up with a wet, raspy chuckle that made the hairs on Lance's neck stand up.

"Look, Mr. Erik, my friend and I should be getting to the Mech Bay. Haiden's waiting for us."

Erik shuddered at the name. The predatory edge left his voice and posture for a brief moment, revealing something somehow more unsettling. "Good luck. That living kilt's always got some kinda stick up his ass."

"Noted." Lance tried to force his way past Erik. When he stopped them, placing a hand on Lance's chest, it was cold, and like everything else about this guy, utterly wrong. A touch that left Lance feeling like he had to wash his whole body off as soon as possible. "One last thing, guys?" Erik's smirk twisted and writhed into a different, more terrifying sort of predatory. "You guys get a look at little Ms. Ward?"

"Yeah," said Lance. "And I'm scared that you have too."

"Nah, it's cool, man." Erik reeked of a cold calm. "You seem like a cool dude. I was thinking we could share?"

"Absolutely not!" Fear replaced the forced calm in Lance's tone. "I don't need to be on her bad side. Let alone, the Commander's. Whatever atrocities you've got stirring in your head, I think you should keep them there."

Now it was Erik's voice that reeks of condescension. "So? The boss says not to touch his girl. Big deal. He also says this is his dropship, so..."

A cold stone fell into Lance's stomach, fear coiling around his throat, choking him. The remark left him sick to the bone, and scared for his own life. Michael had it worse, fear stole every word from his throat, and he was already shifting past Erik towards the 'Mech Bay, taking advantage of how the man's focus was on Lance.

"Well," said Lance, fear warring with frustration. "It has been nothing short of interesting talking to you, Mr. Erik, but Mikey and I need to get to the 'Mech Bay sooner rather than later. Good day."

Erik chuckled again. "Alright, suit yourself. I'll tell ya all about it later." The man continued on his path to God knows where.

"What the fuck was that?" Asked Michael.

"That, I guess, was Erik." Lance's reply held agitation.

"No matter where we go, there's always that one coworker who you just don't like, isn't there?"

"Michael, this is beyond just not liking the guy. He's dangerous, to himself, Cassandra, and us."

"So, we're going to warn her and her dad, right?"

Lance groaned. "Dammit... I don't know. We're the new guys. He's less new. Who are they going to trust? Us, or that weirdo?"

"Well..." Michael's tone held ponderance. "The Commander has said this guy's been a problem before. Maybe we'll have that going for us when we talk to him?"

"And if not, then we risk getting kicked off at the next world. Knowing our luck, we'll be in the Capellan Confederation when that happens."

"So, we just keep it to ourselves?"

"Fuck," Uncertainty gripped Lance's voice. "I don't know. Both options suck."

"We'll figure it out, right?" Oh, God, how that statement has become synonymous with Lance's very existence. There was something about the way Michael said it, specifically, that made him actually believe it.

"God, I hope so."

The moment the boys entered the 'Mech Bays, they were engulfed in familiar sounds of industrial machinery, showers of sparks, and random shouting of orders. Sounds that almost made this ship feel like home. Lance focused only on the voices, of which there were only six. Hardly a sufficient maintenance crew. He narrowed his focus to a single voice, searching among them for Haiden's. One at a time, he listened, cycling through them like items on a manifest.

He heard him, that naturally angry Scotsman growling and barking orders over the wining machinery. "Get yer arses back to work, knaves! Just 'cause we've just got these things fixed doesn't mean ya get to be slackin' off now!" Lance felt sorry for whoever the man was yelling at. His approach seemed more direct, more demanding than George's.

It did not take him long to notice the boys' approach. "You lads! Took ya long enough to get outa that TOR... Get up 'ere, you've got work to be done. We need to prepare the 'Mech Bay for the jump! We need to strap down anythin' that's loose. Start with the heavy equipment at the far side. I'll send someone to teach ya how."

"Yes sir." The boys said simultaneously.

The rest of the day was filled with either small, or tedious tasks like such. All the while, every time Lance looked over his shoulder, there stood Old Man Haiden, watching him and Michael, as if he were studying them, their ability to work, to learn. Each task he gave them had someone else as a teacher. Some better than others, some utterly unhelpful, leaving Lance and Michael to learn the task themselves. This yielded mixed results, as they created unnecessary struggle for themselves, or found the hard way to do such tasks, but rarely threatened disaster. On the rare occasion that it did, Haiden would step in, salvage the task, and show Lance and Michael the proper way to perform such a task. He would then follow up with a swift, but painful reprimand before returning to whatever he was pretending to do while observing the boys. 

Oddly enough, despite being brought on as MechTechs, Haiden seemed to keep the boys away from the 'Mechs, giving them tasks regarding everything except those machines. Towards the eld of the day, Lance approached Haiden. Marched along the catwalk, passing by three of the five BattleMechs before meeting Haiden, and seeing his work on the forth.

"Sir?" His voice carried uncertainty.

"What is it, lad?" Haiden's tone was detached as he finishes whatever tedious task he was working on.

"How come we didn't have to do anything with the 'Mechs?"

"Two reasons." Haiden's voice was detached, collected. "First off, you two nuts just got done fixin' them back on Kathil III. It ain't exactly necessary yet. Second, you think I'm gonna let you two shites near the boss' most expensive machines before you prove yourselves worth the pay?"

"Haven't we already?" Lance was confused.

"Yer old crew did. You specifically have not. The Kathil III Supply and Repair Depot proved to be worth our time and money. You have not. As far as we know, you're just a lucky little shit who stumbled upon a 'Mech and had your daddy pay to get it salvaged and feed your delusions of grandeur." 

The last comment infuriated Lance. His mind latched onto memories of his father. The clean-shaven jaw, long black hair, the rumble in his voice that made it so, so warm. The strength of both body and mind he marveled at every day, and the last words he heard from him. A simple "Don't do something I wouldn't do." As if he were working a nine-to-five and nothing more.

"My father was a MechWarrior. Not some rich asshole spoiling his kid..." Lance could not hide his agitation.

Haiden's demeanor softened, only slightly, only briefly, subtly acknowledging what he'd said, but not taking it back. "Very well then. I'm sympathetic for your loss, boy. Really. Just don't expect me to make life any easier for ye. We've all got shit on our backs. Dead mothers, brothers, fathers, sisters. Frankly? Nobody cares. We've all been dealt a shit hand. Play it. Play it well, and the boss might let ya touch his machines."

Lance's shoulders slumped, slightly. He knew damn well Haiden spoke the truth. "Yes sir." He pauses. Before he can ask for further tasking, Haiden says, "Dismissed, boy. You, and Mr. Slate both. And you'd best be getting your ass to the cargo hold. Ms. Ward is eager to start your MechWarrior training."

Lance's shoulders slump, once more. He recalled his and Ms. Ward's previous conversation, how she said she'd make him regret joining Ward's Cavaliers. But that thought is shoved to the side when he thinks about that face, that posture, those eyes. Maybe, just maybe, it'd be worth it just to look at her. But then again, maybe not. The commander seems to be a rather perceptive fellow, so 'enjoying the view', so to speak, may not be the best idea.

Lance could feel Cassandra rolling her eyes as he entered the cargo hold. She leans against a cargo crate, casually flipping her knife by its tip. But her gaze is locked on Lance, her emerald eyes thoroughly unimpressed. Her voice drips with its usual venom, and yet was smooth as whiskey. "Alright, listen up, shit-stain, I don't want to be here any more than you do. Do as I say, and you'll survive."

The space around them is mostly empty. Just a few crates, probably filled with salvaged scrap armor material, and a single simulator pod against the wall. Its edges were weathered, any paint that encased its now dull metal has long since chipped and fallen away. Lance leaned against the wall next to the bulkhead, his gaze flickered between Cassandra and the pod. "So, I assume we're starting with the pod?"

The knife she was tossing was suddenly flying tip-first towards Lance's face. He flinched just enough that it flew by, and embedded in the wall next to his head, vibrating softly. "And that is the last time you talk to me before I tell you to, and survive." Cassandra was pleasantly surprised by his reflexes, but still far from impressed.

"Failure to follow instructions will get you killed, Trephore. Remember that." She pushed herself off the crate and stalked towards him, invading his space. She braced her arm across his collarbone, pushing him against the wall as she grabbed her knife. "Both on the field, and in here. By their hand, or by mine. Understood?"

Lance nodded nervously. "Yes, ma'am." She backed away, tearing her knife from the wall with a jerk. "Good." Her gaze leaves his, analyzing the space around them, until it falls back to her knife, flipping it once more. "Speaking of... Think fast." She tosses it to Lance instead of at him. He scrambles to catch it, slicing his palm in the process, but it never hits the ground. He immediately deposits the knife in his other hand, and shook his wounded palm furiously.

"Fuck!" He shouted, blood dripping from his palm. He dares not move before she instructs him. Visions of the knife striking his face like it almost did minutes prior fill his mind. He just presses his other hand to the wound, trying and failing to minimize the bleeding. She just stands there, staring at him, her gaze growing more amused by the second. "You gonna clean that up?"

"Got a tissue, ma'am?" Anger rose within Lance's mind. Here he stands, bleeding and at her mercy.

Humiliating, He thinks to himself. Who does that bitch think she is? How the hell is this supposed to make me into a MechWarrior?

"There's a medkit over by the pod. Use it." Lance doesn't hesitate. He marches over to the simulator pod, holding his wound, but trying not to look desperate to dress it. The antiseptic stung like a son of a bitch. He turned to face Cassandra, standing tall and at attention, despite the humiliation. A smirk tugged at the corner of her lip.

'He knows how to follow orders,' She thinks. 'Good. Maybe he's not entirely hopeless.' "At ease, Trephore." She says. "You know how to make a 'Mech walk? Show me. Power up the pod and hop in."

For the briefest moment, Lance returns her smirk. He follows her orders, powering up the pod, and settling into the pilot's seat. He dons the neurohelm, and the simulation commences. It seemed Cassandra had pre-loaded a situation, placing Lance in a Hunchback of the same model as the one he brought with him. The course Cassandra had laid forth was just an array of thing's he'd find on any given mission. Hills, forests, rough terrain, deep water, other things of the like.

"Now walk." Cassandra observed the simulation from outside the pod, through a viewscreen. He presses the throttle forward, his mind focused on the simulated 'Mech's upward orientation as if he himself were the one standing. He moves slow, and keeps it steady through the clearing and over the first hill. George had taught him to move slow when in an industrial 'Mech. But this is no industrial 'Mech, simulation or not.

"Pick up the pace." Casandra says. He does just that, pushing the throttle forward, his mind straining to keep the simulated 'Mech upright. But he pushed forward. The strain manifested into an outright headache once the Hunchback reached full speed. The sort of headache that made his vision blur around the edges. The 'Mech starts to wobble. 

"Careful, Trephore." Says Cassandra, almost taunting. "Don't give yourself a brain aneurism." He doesn't relent. Refuses to. He pushes onward. But his blurring vision blocks the rough terrain from his view, and he fails to slow down or compensate. The feet of his 'Mech turn over, and it lands flat on its chest. The feedback from the simulated impact is brief, but incapacitating. A blade lashing through Lance's mind, then gone.

"Stings, doesn't it?" Cassandra chides. "So, what did you learn?"

"Don't push too hard, and look out for rough terrain."

"Attaboy. Now go take some pain meds. That headache's gonna last a while. Dismissed, for now."

Lance took off the neurohelm, and stepped out of the pod, stumbling once as he remembers how to control his own legs, twice as the mental fatigue catches up with him. "Yes, ma'am..." This entire first training session has been a massive exercise in frustration for the both of them. But still, Lance sees its necessity.