Otwin came in slowly.

  The TPC’s engine growled with a rough, uneven tone as it rolled along the ley-line toward the repair site, treads chewing steadily through pale dirt and scattered stone. The carrier was big enough that it felt wrong on this quiet stretch of land, a hard-edged silhouette that screamed military even with the gaping hole in its driver's side door.

  Behind it, his STV bounced along on a tow line, tracks dragging and catching on rocks where the dead engine refused to help. The front housing was scorched and warped. Smoke stains streaked the armor plates. It looked like a machine that had been punched in the throat and never recovered.

  Otwin sat high in the TPC’s driver seat, hands steady on controls that still felt unfamiliar. The cab smelled like sweat and hot metal and something else he did not want to name. He kept his eyes forward and let the engine do what it could.

  The Ol’ Five Seven and the crippled turret fort came into view together, two hulks squatting on the ley-line with men moving between them like ants. Repairs were still underway. The turret fort’s torn tread assembly lay in pieces off to one side, a mess of metal and bracing being sorted into piles. Steam hissed from vent lines. Tools rang. Voices carried.

  Otwin drove the TPC right up to the perimeter and brought it to a stop.

  For a moment, nobody moved.

  Then helmets turned. People stared.

  Grump emerged from between the forts and walked toward the carrier with the kind of cautious confidence that only came from years of command experience.

  Otwin opened the hatch and climbed down with a stiffness he could no longer hide. His Stormtrooper armor had taken a beating. Scratches and gouges crosshatched the plating. The left shoulder sat slightly off, the actuator whine uneven when he moved. The suit still made him essentially a superhuman, but a battered one.

  Grump stopped a few feet away and looked him up and down.

  “Good lord, Otwin,” Grump said, voice half disbelief and half exasperated admiration. His gaze shifted to the TPC. “You come bearing riches.”

  Otwin let out a short breath that might have been a laugh in another life. “I try.”

  An engineer hurried in behind Grump, then another, both of them already talking over each other about how they were going to get Otwin out of the armor without making things worse.

  “Don’t move too fast,” one of them said.

  “Left shoulder’s shot,” the other muttered, peering at the actuator housing. “That’s not just scuffed. The myromers are damaged.”

  Otwin stood still and let them work.

  They unsealed clamps. Released latches. Disconnected power couplings with careful, practiced hands. The Stormtrooper armor was not designed for quick removal in the field, but these men were veterans of making do. They moved with the steady patience of people who knew that rushing would turn expensive damage into catastrophic failure.

  As the chest plate came loose and the weight shifted, Otwin felt the sudden return of his own body, lighter and more vulnerable without the armor’s constant support. Sweat cooled under his undershirt. His shoulders ached. Bruises made themselves known.

  Grump watched the process in silence, arms folded, face unreadable.

  When the helmet finally came off, Otwin blinked in the harsh light, squinting against dust and glare. The wind felt colder on his face than it should have.

  Grump stepped closer.

  “I was going to wait,” Grump said. “Until we got back. Until there was a celebration or something.”

  Otwin looked at him, expression neutral.

  “But you’ve earned this,” Grump continued.

  He motioned to someone behind him.

  A runner appeared with a package in both hands, wrapped in oilcloth and bound with cord. It was long and narrow, heavy enough that the runner carried it with care. Grump took it and placed it into Otwin’s hands.

  “The commander of the turret fort had a sword,” Grump said. “I say had, because his crew broke it when they took over. Snapped it right at the hilt, from what they told us.”

  Otwin glanced down at the package.

  “Here,” Grump said. “This part survived.”

  Otwin’s fingers worked the cord loose. He peeled back the oilcloth and found an ornate bronze scabbard within.

  It was well made.

  Not showy for the sake of being showy. The bronze had been polished and etched with fine geometric patterns that caught the light in sharp lines. The mouth was reinforced with darker metal, banded and riveted cleanly. The throat bore an inset plate with a stylized mark that looked Hegemony in design, a symbol that meant command and competence.

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  Otwin turned it slightly in his hands, feeling the weight and balance.

  Empty.

  A scabbard without its blade.

  That should have made it worthless.

  It didn’t.

  Otwin nodded to Grump. “Nice,” he said. “Thanks.” He moved over to the side door of the TPC and reached in, grabbing his vibro sword. A moment later, he slid it into the scabbard. It wasn't a perfect fit, but it did fit.

  Then, he glanced toward the captured turret fort. It sat silent, scarred, and heavy, still half disassembled. A giant prize, but also a giant problem.

  “We still have work,” Otwin said.

  Grump’s mouth twitched. “We always do.”

  The engineer clearing the last of the armor clamps cleared his throat. “We need the suit on the gantry. Now. If we’re going to fix that shoulder actuator before it locks up.”

  Otwin handed the scabbard off to a nearby crate for the moment, careful where he placed it. Then he stepped away as the engineers began the slow work of moving the Stormtrooper armor toward the repair rig.

  Grump stayed beside him as they walked.

  “You alright?” Grump asked quietly.

  Otwin’s eyes flicked toward the TPC, then toward the flat land beyond, where distance swallowed everything. “I’m here,” he said.

  Grump studied him for a long moment, then nodded once.

  “Good,” Grump said. “Because if you keep bringing home prizes like this, we’re going to run out of room to park them.”

  Otwin almost smiled.

  Almost.

  He picked up the bronze scabbard again before he followed the engineers, feeling its cool weight in his hands.

  It was not a blade.

  But it was a reminder.

  They were no longer just scavengers on a road.

  They were becoming something that drew attention.

  ***

  The Security room was louder than it had any right to be.

  Not with alarms or shouted reports, but with laughter, grunts, and the dull, rhythmic thud of boots shifting against the deck. The space had been designed for monitors, maps, and controlled chaos. Right now, it was hosting something closer to morale maintenance.

  Otwin paused in the doorway and watched.

  Jordy and Humbert sat across from each other at a reinforced table bolted into the deck. Paul stood between them, one hand on each of their clasped wrists, leaning in with the exaggerated seriousness of a man pretending this was official business.

  Jordy was still in his Stormtrooper armor.

  The plating hugged him tight, servos idling with a faint mechanical whine as the suit compensated for micro-movements. Power conduits ran along the forearm, pulsing softly as the armor prepared to translate intent into force. The armor made him look heavier than he was. More imposing. Like a machine pretending to be a man.

  Humbert wore none of that.

  He sat bare-armed, sleeves rolled up past elbows that looked like they had been carved rather than grown. Muscle layered on muscle, thick and knotted, veins standing out like cables under the skin. His forearm rested on the table as if the reinforced metal meant nothing to him at all.

  Paul glanced between them. “Ready.”

  Jordy grinned inside his helmet. Humbert’s expression was calm, almost amused.

  Paul let go.

  They leaned into it immediately.

  The table groaned as force met force. Jordy’s armored arm drove forward with a sharp, mechanical precision, the Stormtrooper suit amplifying his strength in smooth, controlled increments. The servos whined louder as he pushed, the armor responding faithfully to every ounce of effort he put into it.

  Humbert did not move.

  At first.

  His arm held steady, unmoving, as if Jordy were pressing against a wall. Then Humbert’s muscles began to bunch and swell, forearm thickening visibly as he leaned in. The skin along his arm stretched tight, veins rising, his grip tightening with deliberate, inexorable pressure.

  The armor whined harder.

  Paul leaned back a step, eyes widening slightly as the contest settled into its true shape. This was not a quick win. This was endurance.

  Jordy’s laughter echoed inside his helmet. “You’re kidding me.”

  Humbert said nothing. He just kept pushing.

  The Stormtrooper armor compensated again, drawing more power, stabilizers locking down to prevent slip. The servos trembled under the strain, a high-pitched whine filling the room as the suit tried to match what it was being asked to do.

  Slowly, painfully, Jordy’s arm began to move.

  Inch by inch.

  The table creaked. Metal groaned. Humbert’s bicep bulged like it was trying to tear free of his skin. His jaw tightened, breath controlled, every movement precise.

  Jordy pushed harder, boots scraping against the deck as he leaned his full weight into it. “This is not happening.”

  It was.

  With a final, grinding effort, Humbert forced Jordy’s arm down to the table. The impact rang sharp and loud, metal on metal.

  Paul slapped the table. “Winner.”

  Jordy burst out laughing, helmet tilted back as he pulled his arm free. “That’s ridiculous.”

  Humbert flexed his hand once, rolling his shoulder as if he’d just finished a warm-up. “You’ve gotten better,” he said.

  “That’s the worst part,” Jordy replied. “So have you.”

  Otwin stepped into the room fully then, the corner of his mouth twitching as he watched the aftermath. He had seen Humbert do things like this before. It still did not make sense.

  He had never met anyone as strong as Humbert.

  Not before the war. Not during it. Not after.

  Even as the years crept up on him, Humbert just seemed to get heavier. Denser. Like gravity itself was paying him special attention.

  “Alright, boys,” Otwin said, breaking the moment. “Fun’s over.”

  All three turned toward him.

  “We’ve got ourselves a TPC,” Otwin continued. “This means when we get back to Rafborough, we need to track down the rest of the boys.”

  Paul’s expression shifted first, the smile fading as understanding set in. He glanced at Jordy, who met his look and sighed theatrically.

  Humbert just grinned.

  “I know,” Jordy said. “I know this is going to be up to me.”

  Otwin nodded. “Yeah. Mostly.”

  Jordy leaned back in his chair, hands laced behind his helmeted head. “Figures. You bring home a stolen carrier, and suddenly I’m a recruiter.”

  “You’re good at it,” Paul said.

  “I’m loud,” Jordy corrected. “There’s a difference.”

  “Loud works,” Otwin said. “We’re going to need drivers. Gunners. People who know Imperial hardware and know when to keep their mouths shut.”

  Humbert’s grin faded just enough to show interest. “You think they’ll come.”

  Otwin looked around the room at the men who had already answered that question once before. “Some will. Some won’t. But the ones who do will be worth having.”

  Jordy exhaled. “Guess I’ll start making a list.”

  “Do that,” Otwin said. “Quietly.”

  Paul tapped the table. “This is getting bigger.”

  Otwin did not argue.

  Outside the Security room, the Ol’ Five Seven hummed steadily, surrounded by prizes that would have drawn eyes even in a city, let alone out here on the road.

  Inside, for a few moments longer, they let themselves enjoy the sound of laughter and the illusion that strength alone could keep things simple.