The Argov suits are my magnum opus—a project I tinkered with between arguing about Ortol’s tragic taste in fashion and recalibrating the generator that powers his ego. And yet, despite my undeniable genius, I’m currently being slapped in the face by a rogue mechanical arm.

  "Steady, Kinetica," I mutter, glaring at the glowing interface as the suit’s kinetic reservoir spikes like a child on a sugar rush. “Therma, do your damn job and balance it out before we all explode.”

  If I don’t fix this energy distribution issue, the Argov suits might turn soldiers into human firecrackers—an outcome I’d consider karmic justice if not for the inevitable court-martial.

  I massage my temple as I tweak the settings, feeling more like a bomb defuser than an engineer. The suit twitches, energy flaring. A warning sign flashes across my View:

  Destabilization Imminent.

  I take a deep breath. This is fixable. I can fix this.

  Then Ortol walks in, his pants tighter than my budget.

  "Morning, Ortol," I say without looking up. "Lose a battle with fabric physics?"

  “No,” he replies, blissfully oblivious to his suffering. “I am visiting the military tommorow. I thought it reasonable for you to come along.”

  Me? What, is he auctioning me off?

  Fast-forward to the next morning, and we’re strolling through military grounds, escorted by several armed men whose job is to ensure our own soldiers don’t get any ideas. I say let them. Maybe it’ll stimulate their brains a little. Because right now? They’re heaving and puffing like an overworked donkey in its third trimester.

  A couple of soldiers approach—Romeo’s division. The Elites, with jawlines sharp enough to file paperwork.

  Romeo greets Ortol, “Emperus wishes to greet us, how generous of you.”

  Then he claps Ortol on the shoulder like they’re old war buddies and launches into his favorite topic—himself.

  “I took a Navorian base,” he says, smug as hell. “Stormed in under the cover of night, precise as a blade. Not a single one of those scaled freaks left standing.”

  By ‘precise as a blade,’ he means ‘set everything on fire.’ No bodies retrieved, no intel gathered—just ashes. The forest, the buildings, the very air? Incinerated. Amazing strategy, General Arson.

  Cue Ortol, stroking his ridiculous hair—a black-and-yellow catastrophe—in a way that demands admiration. He grins and delivers the line he rehearsed a thousand times last night, ensuring I suffered through each revision:

  “Your loyalty to this cause will etch your names into history.”

  Yeah, sure. The soldiers get statues, the generals get history books, and the engineers? We get stress-induced ulcers.

  Romeo turns to his soldiers, shouting something that sends them into a frenzy. Then he leans in, his smirk oozing self-importance. “I heard there was a new weapon in the works. What of it?”

  Ortol’s eyes gleam with that dangerous mix of charm and shark-like cunning. “Jrake, our brilliant engineer—” He gestures at me.

  Goddamn it, Ortol.

  “He has outdone himself with the development of the Argov Powered Suits. These are extensions of your very being, designed to enhance reflexes, strength, and endurance to unprecedented levels.”

  A hundred gazes turn toward me. Sweat beads on my temple. ‘Brilliant engineer,’ huh? More like ‘guy trying to avoid public execution when this inevitably backfires.’

  Romeo barely acknowledges me, looking away as if I’m a stain on his national pride.

  How dare he? I, too, am a scholar from Mecanet—

  Oh wait, Ortol’s only bothered advertising himself.

  Romeo grins. “I already imagine a future where battles are won by precision, not numbers! Where these suits will define the battlefield!”

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  I glance at my schematics through my View. Or a future where soldiers pop like balloons because Kinetica is still throwing a tantrum.

  Romeo and Ortol keep bickering, their voices blending into the background noise of my impending headache. Since I seem to be as invisible to Romeo as common sense is to him, I take my leave.

  That’s when I spot the real entertainment—suffering soldiers in training.

  Such art.

  Their agony is framed perfectly against the backdrop of their trainer:

  Klaus Richter.

  A walking steel beam. Every word out of his mouth sounds like it’s meant to be carved into stone, preferably while the sculptor weeps in terror.

  "You are lower than filth! You are the rot that filth gags at! If the universe could vomit, you’d be the stain on the floor! If I could legally bury you alive and let the worms negotiate your fate, I would! But instead, you get the honor of my presence! Now, DROP AND GIVE ME AN ATTEMPT AT BEING HUMAN!"

  Bodies hit the dirt like a synchronized execution. One soldier in particular—broad, shaking, sweat-drenched—looks like he’s auditioning for a one-way trip to the afterlife. And yet, he keeps going.

  Yes. Suffer, weakling! Your pain is nourishment!

  Wait. No. That could be phrased better. How does Ortol do this? Maybe I should step on him and cackle like a villain who just stole his kidneys.

  Before I can perfect my monologue, Klaus barks, “STAND.”

  Hey. I was enjoying my mental cinema.

  Then his eyes lock onto me.

  "It seems the engineer has something to say," he growls. "For you maggots who don’t know, he’s making the suits."

  Ah, yes. I absolutely planned a speech for this moment.

  I didn’t.

  But if Klaus wants a show, I’ll give him one.

  With my View:

  AI, make me sound inspiring.

  Text populates.

  I read aloud, "This war shall carve the future of our world into stone—" My eyes skim the next line. I blink. "—or, you know, into something less permanent, depending on how things go.”

  I gesture skyward as a plane streaks overhead. "That’s heading to the poles, reducing radiation from past nukes, preventing storms that could rip cities apart." Then, quieter, "At least, that’s the theory. Pretty sure they’re just hoping for the best."

  Then I get to the good part. "The suits Klaus mentioned, they use Argov energy to enhance—"

  Pause.

  "Oh. Right. You guys aren’t getting these. You’re stuck in basic gear, running on adrenaline and ego."

  Silence...

  Yeah, I should not have said it like that.

  Then a voice cuts through.

  "Is that all we are?"

  A soldier steps forward—dark skin, short hair, an intensity that could set steel on fire. Vortex.

  His name alone makes the murmurs spread like an oil spill.

  Another soldier snaps, "We are being sent to die, aren’t we?"

  Then it goes wild.

  A rumble moves through the crowd, no longer a statement but a wave, rolling, building, crashing toward something ugly. This is bad. Oh. This is bad. This is so bad. Someone save me before I faint—I cannot handle this many humans barking at me.

  Wait, there’s Klaus—

  He’s unzipping his pants.

  A hiss of liquid against a collapsed soldier. The guy doesn't even flinch.

  Classy.

  The crowd stirs, anger boiling. Then she steps forward.

  A woman with fiery orange hair tucked under her cap. Red freckles scattered across her cheeks. The kind of cool confidence that says she could end a man’s entire bloodline with one well-placed insult.

  She looks at me. Her gaze is steady, assessing. A commander’s calm wrapped in a quiet confidence. Then a smile, followed by a nod.

  My View sputters her name: June.

  Oh. Oh no. My brain seizes up like a motor choking on oil.

  Public speaking? A nightmare.

  Social settings? A slow, torturous death.

  June looking directly at me? Full cardiac arrest. Someone fetch a defibrillator—or better yet, just let me short-circuit in peace.

  Then she turns to the soldiers, her voice slicing through the noise. “Respect who stands before you. He does not decide your performance.”

  A beat.

  A pause.

  Soldiers exchange glances, shifting on their feet. Then, like clockwork, “That’s right.” Ortol steps in—finally—Romeo beside him. “This war cannot be won by conflict. You will be sent to win. Some will lose their lives—this is what you signed up for.”

  A murmur spreads, a whisper at first, then growing. Boots shift, shoulders square. A soldier clenches his fists. Another shakes his head. Then Vortex moves. The way the soldiers part for him tells me enough—he’s the kind of guy that makes people reconsider their life choices.

  His voice is ice. "We train, we bleed, we break—and we get scraps,” he growls. “But when your golden boys burn an entire base, they get statues. If we die in the mud, we get forgotten.”

  Romeo steps forward, radiating smug superiority.

  "Vortex," he croons, "homo sine armis nihil est." The Latin drips from his lips like wine poured for peasants—sweet to him, bitter to everyone else.

  Then, with all the grace of a lion toying with prey, he claps a hand on his shoulder.

  "We are superior in every way. The death of just one of us could shift the tide of this war."

  His grip tightens. The smirk on his face practically qualifies as an independent nation.

  "But," he adds, voice dripping with faux generosity, "since you doubt my methods, perhaps you’d like to prove me wrong."

  Silence...

  Then Ortol steps forward, voice like a hammer.

  “This isn’t a playground for personal grievances, Vortex. And Romeo, we lead by unity, not division.” His gaze sharpens. “You may question each other’s methods, but in the end, you fight for the same cause. I will not have this mission compromised by egos.”

  For the first time today, he actually sounds like a leader.

  Then his eyes land on Vortex. “You think you’re being treated unfairly? Then prove yourself.” He turns to all the soldiers. “All soldiers who return from their first battle successfully will be considered for the armor, depending on performance.”

  His gaze lands back on Vortex. "Am I clear?"

  Vortex’s jaw tightens. Then, with forced restraint, he nods.

  Romeo, ever the insufferable aristocrat, drops a Latin phrase so casually you’d think he invented the language. “Fiat victoria, non misericordia.”

  His team chuckles like it’s an inside joke.

  Vortex’s fists clench before he turns and walks off.

  He’s pissed. Rightfully so.

  But me?

  I’m just the guy who makes the suits. And if anyone needs me, I’ll be at my lab trying to stop Kinetica from turning the lab into molten slag.

  Again...

  Now excuse me while I escape this disaster before it drags me any deeper.

  Who had the best moment in this chapter?