8.27.2578
ShipTime: 2143
Tony had just finished showering in his private quarters. Exiting the glass-enclosed stall, he grabbed a towel and began patting down his skin, brushing away the beads of water. The restroom was a testament to wealth and indulgence—exactly what he expected for himself. A sleek vanity with a polished mirror gleamed under recessed lighting, while a waterfall shower head, embedded in the ceiling, had sent water cascading over him like he was standing beneath a mountain spring.
Only the toilet stood out, jarringly utilitarian. Stainless steel and designed for function alone, its military design had no place in his quarters but had been deemed "non-negotiable" by the ship's engineers. It irritated Tony, but he could live with it—for now.
He stepped out of the restroom into the larger space of his private quarters. This was his domain, bought and paid for with his own carefully hoarded credits. The new oak floors glowed warmly beneath his bare feet. The king-sized bed was draped in high-thread-count sheets—entirely impractical but utterly worth it. Across the room sat a desk of rich, dark wood, customized to his specifications.
The walls, however, betrayed the room's true nature. Beneath the façade of luxury, they remained cold, gray metal panels, humming faintly with the vibrations of the ship. Above the bed, a faux window displayed a panorama of the stars. The distant destination of the R.F. Enchantress hung in the void like a blue-green jewel.
On the desk stood an urn—ornate, its surface decorated with the heraldry of House Lowell. It was both a reminder of his family's noble standing and a quiet assertion of his own superiority. Despite keeping his maiden name, Tony reaped the rewards of Lowell wealth—and deservedly so, in his own estimation.
"Hello, Father," he said, addressing the urn.
Standing shirtless, he regarded it with a mixture of reverence and pride. His muscles, taut and defined, gleamed slightly in the dim light as he reached for his uniform. He slid the shirt over his shoulders, buttoning it slowly, methodically, as if preparing for battle.
"I made it," Tony said, his voice firm, each word dripping with self-assurance. He straightened his posture, as though addressing an unseen audience. "You made me strong. Persistent. And for that, I am thankful." His tone shifted, colder now, sharper, as he leaned forward, clasping his hands together on the desk. "Your other sons have failed you, Father. Miserably. It falls to me—your only true heir—to ensure the longevity, wealth, and future of House Lowell."
He paused, his lips curling into a faint smirk before his expression turned solemn. "Believe in me as you always did before." The somberness in his voice became heavier as he slowly lowered himself into his chair, the weight of his words settling like a mantle of responsibility he wore with pride.
Tony opened a drawer with deliberate precision and retrieved a small necklace with a pendant, holding it up to catch the light. His eyes glinted with a mix of reverence and triumph. The pendant was shaped like a shield, its top bearing the symbol of the Federated Suns and its bottom etched with the crest of House Lowell.
The Lowell family crest depicted a winged creature—a grotesque hybrid of a dove and a predator. Its serrated beak and sharp-edged wings gave it an air of menace, while its slanted, malice-filled eyes seemed to sneer back at him. Branded onto the nape of its neck was the unmistakable Lowell 'L,' a mark of dominion.
He chuckled softly, the sound hollow and tinged with derision. "They didn't care where you went after your passing, Father," he murmured, his words almost venomous. "But I am not like them. I am better. Stronger. Smarter. I promised I would take you everywhere I went, and I meant it."
Tony opened the ornate urn on his desk, the movements slow and theatrical, as if savoring the gravity of the moment. Removing the faceplate of the pendant to reveal its hollow interior, he allowed himself a thin smile. "You did not abandon me like so many others would have," he said, his voice thick with pride and self-righteousness. "And I will not abandon you."
He scooped some of his father's ashes into the pendant with a steady hand, sealing them within as though closing a pact. For a moment, he held the pendant before him, his gaze lingering on the crest. His lips pressed into a hard line.
"I am House Lowell now," he declared to the empty room, his voice ringing with defiance. "Not them. Me."
Reaching into the drawer once more, Tony pulled out a small torch, his movements precise, almost ceremonious. He ignited it, the flame reflecting in his eyes as he melted the edges of the pendant. The room filled with the faint scent of scorched metal, and the finality of the act settled over him.
He leaned back in his chair, holding the sealed pendant in his hand. A small, satisfied smile curled his lips. "Wherever I go, Father, so will your legacy. Not through my brothers' incompetence but through my triumph. Our triumph."
Shiptime:0734
The pounding on Tony's door jolted him awake with such violence that he instinctively reached for his sidearm. Weapon drawn, he swept the room with sharp, practiced movements, scanning for threats before his senses caught up with him. The lush, silk sheets of his bed whispered promises of comfort, luring him back into their embrace. Sleep beckoned, a siren's call he almost answered.
Instead, Tony leaned over and tapped the wall panel, flooding the room with light.
"Tony, get up. You have to train the Lieutenant who is assigned the newest lance."
The voice, unfamiliar and sharp, cut through his grogginess. Its commanding tone carried an unmistakable authority—someone high-ranking. But who, exactly, had the audacity to order him around? That, he intended to find out.
Tony swung his legs out of bed and strode to the door of his quarters. The chill air bit at his skin, a sensation he welcomed. It reminded him of the icy peaks of his childhood—
No.
The thought was dismissed, shoved to the recesses of his mind. That boy was gone, long buried. I remember the coldness of the mountains of New Avalon; beautiful sights they are, his thoughts rewrote the memory, smoothing over its edges.
With a press of the panel, the display outside his door flickered to life. A soldier stood there, armored and imposing, a one-way visor hiding his face. The insignia of two green chevrons and a sword marked him as an AFFS Sergeant Major.
Tony shifted the sidearm behind his back and opened the door. The Sergeant Major's visor reflected Tony's disheveled state: hair unkempt, shirt clinging unevenly to his chest.
The man's head bobbed as he spoke, his words firm and unyielding, but Tony caught none of it. He stood there, silent, still processing the sheer gall of a subordinate addressing him in such a manner. Without a word, he tapped the panel again, shutting the door in the Sergeant Major's face.
Tony walked past his desk, dropping the sidearm onto it, and headed for the bathroom. He splashed cold water onto his face, slicked back his hair, and donned his officer's uniform, all while the incessant banging on the door continued.
Returning to his desk, he holstered his pistol beneath his jacket and opened the door once more.
"You may not realize how rude—"
The Sergeant Major's attempt to speak was cut short as Tony brushed past him, not sparing him a glance. He could feel the man's presence lingering behind him, but the orders he was issuing went ignored. Tony had a singular focus as he made his way toward the officers' mess. As he crossed the threshold, he hoped the Sergeant Major would stop following him, but as he poured himself a cup of coffee, he felt the weight of the Sergeant Major's gaze boring into the back of his skull.
Tony took a slow, deliberate sip of the black coffee, its bitter taste snapping him fully awake. With the sharpness of the flavor came the sharpness of responsibility, its weight pressing down on him, but only momentarily. He took a calming breath, collecting himself, before turning to face the Sergeant Major, who was standing just a few feet away.
"You've woken me up," Tony said, his voice cold and controlled. "You've pestered me without mercy, and now all I'm trying to do is fully wake up and process whatever nonsense you're spouting. Now that I'm awake, clearly and concisely, tell me why you're following me around like a lost pup."
Tony took another sip, stepping closer, watching as the Sergeant Major faltered. A thin, satisfied smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Sergeant Major," he added, his voice dropping to a chilling edge. "Make it quick."
The Sergeant Major's head bobbed, and this time Tony was able to register his words. He didn't care much for what was being said, but as an officer, he had no choice but to listen. After all, they were still on the same vessel, even if they weren't in the same branch.
"Sir, you were meant to begin training Lieutenant Zand yesterday," the Sergeant Major said. "You weren't at your post. The Captain gave you a pass after reading the report about your... unsuccessful linking with the Catapult you were assigned. I was sent to—"
Tony raised a hand, cutting him off with a sharp motion.
"My initialization with the Catapult was a success," Tony said, his tone unwavering. "It was unorthodox, but it was a success. Take that back to your Captain. I'm aware the greenhorn needs training, but we need a planet to land on first. You grunts call it OJT, if I'm not mistaken. But if the Captain insists on me training him, I'll do what I can—in classes. There's only so much you can learn on a ship."
The Sergeant Major straightened, his voice more pointed now. "Lieutenant Zand awaits you on the engineering deck. He's been waiting since yesterday. And for your information, on-the-job training is a tried-and-true tradition. Though I do not think a MechWarrior should be subjected to that."
Tony's eyes narrowed.
The Sergeant Major turned without another word, boots echoing down the corridor, leaving Tony alone with his coffee and thoughts.
Since yesterday? Tony mused, a smirk pulling at the edge of his mouth. Perfect. He'll already be off-balance. He'll have to work harder to keep up.
He finished the coffee in a long, final sip, the bitter taste matching the satisfaction curling in his chest. Time to make an impression.
Shiptime: 0800
Tony entered the engineering bay, this time wearing a respirator. The stale, metallic tang of the air clung to his senses, and now that he knew he'd be spending an extended period here, he deemed the precaution necessary. The thought of sharing space with the muck and grease-streaked personnel churned his stomach, but duty compelled him forward.
The engineering bay was a chaotic hive of activity. Sparks flew as welding torches hissed, and voices barked orders over the hum of machinery. Tony roamed through the bustle, his sharp eyes scanning the crowd until they settled on Lieutenant Zand. The young officer sat perched on a crate of ammunition, surrounded by AFFS engineers and a handful of contractors. His boisterous laughter echoed as he spun a tale, gesturing animatedly. Among the group stood Subaltern Jill Warren, her stance rigid, arms crossed, as though guarding the scene with a mixture of amusement and duty.
Zand's voice carried through the din: "So there I was, in the final exam, staring down my first BattleArmor. I knew I had to think fast—"
Jill was the first to notice Tony. She shoved off the crate she had been leaning on and snapped to attention with crisp precision. "Officer on deck!" she called, her voice cutting through the ambient noise like a whip.
The AFFS personnel lounging nearby scrambled to their feet, their postures immediately stiff. The contractors, however, remained oblivious, exchanging confused glances and continuing their idle chatter.
Zand glanced around, puzzled by the sudden shift. "Guys, seriously, no need for all that," he chuckled, waving a hand dismissively. "I may be an officer, but come on—I've been telling you stories all morning"
It wasn't until he turned and spotted Tony emerging from the shadows of the bay that his laughter faltered. Still, Zand made no move to stand to attention. Why would he? They were equals, after all.
"It's not for you, Greenhorn," Tony said, his voice cold and cutting. He strode forward, stopping short of the contractors. Without hesitation, he grabbed one by the collar and hauled him to his feet.
"The same goes for the rest of you," Tony continued, his tone dripping with disdain. "When you see one of them stand, you follow suit. We officers didn't get our titles by applying to some job listing like you lot. We earned them—by working harder, sacrificing more, and enduring challenges you wouldn't begin to understand."
The cold authority in Tony's voice struck like a whip. The contractors scrambled to their feet, their postures awkward and unsure. Tony's piercing gaze swept over the group, scrutinizing every detail down to the faint ruffle in their shirts. He wanted to see them squirm—and they did.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he gave a short nod, seemingly satisfied. "At ease," he announced curtly, watching as the collective tension broke. A chorus of relieved breaths escaped the group as they shifted back into more comfortable stances.
"Every one of you is dismissed. Get back to your stations and posts." Tony's voice cut through the murmurs as his scrutinizing gaze lingered on the contractors. "If I return and find any of you still lounging around, it'll be dead sprints until we make planetfall." Without waiting for acknowledgment, Tony shoved past the group, sparing them not so much as a glance.
He stopped a few paces from Zand, standing tall and composed, his posture exuding authority. Lieutenant M. Zand, as his embroidered name patch read, still sat perched on a crate of ammunition meant for BattleArmor units. Tony's eyes shifted briefly to Jill, who remained relaxed, leaning casually on a crate further away from Zand.
Tony offered her a nod, a rare gesture of acknowledgment. "Jill, it's good to see you made it through the second round of testing." His words were measured, warm enough to convey approval but devoid of genuine affection. "Good job."
Jill nodded in return, her expression neutral but knowing. She pushed off the crate and prepared to leave, pausing only to pat Tony lightly on the back as she passed. It was a small, familiar gesture that disarmed him for a moment—she'd always known how to exploit his soft spot for women. "Be gentle on him," she teased as she exited the bay.
Zand finally stirred, hopping off the crate with a confident grin. He leaned casually against it, studying Tony with a critical eye. After a beat, he stepped closer, extending a hand. "You're the infamous 'Little.' It's nice to finally meet you. I look forward to working together."
Tony's gaze flicked to the outstretched hand, then back to Zand's face. He made no move to reciprocate. The air between them grew taut as Tony's cold expression remained unreadable. Zand's grin faltered slightly but didn't disappear; his confidence held firm.
"Sir," Tony replied curtly, his tone as icy as his demeanor.
"Ah, there's no nee—" Zand began, his casual tone cut short by Tony's interruption.
"You forgot sir," Tony stated sharply, turning on his heel without further acknowledgment. He raised a hand in a dismissive gesture, motioning for Zand to follow.
For a moment, Zand stood frozen, stunned by the brazen dismissal. Ever since earning his lieutenant status, he'd been met with respect, admiration even. But this man—this cold, critical man—hadn't even feigned politeness.
It was strange, unnerving even. What had he done to deserve such immediate disdain? With a resigned breath, Zand finally moved to follow, his mind racing to piece together the reasons behind Tony's dismissive attitude.
Tony stalked toward the elevator, his boots echoing sharply against the metal decking of the engineering bay. He couldn't stand being down here any longer. The grime, the heat, the endless hum of machinery—it was beneath him. Training should take place in the barracks, or better yet, the war room. Of course, he still needed clearance for that.
Finally reaching the elevator, Tony glanced over his shoulder and waited impatiently for Zand to catch up. Once the doors slid shut, he fixed his gaze forward, his expression unreadable.
"Mid-decks," he ordered crisply, his voice clipped. Zand stepped in, pressed the button, and the elevator hummed to life. It began its steady ascent, the walls vibrating faintly as it carried them away from the depths of engineering.
The stale, metallic air of the lower decks began to clear as the elevator rose. Tony unclasped his respirator and hooked it on the hem of his uniform pants, letting it dangle carelessly. With an almost imperceptible sigh, he adjusted his uniform, straightening it with practiced precision.
"What's the mask for, Gutierrez?" Zand's voice broke the silence, his casual tone cutting through the hum of the elevator.
Tony didn't answer immediately. He kept his gaze locked on the polished silver doors, his posture rigid. Then, sensing an opportunity to assert his superiority, he spoke, his words slow and deliberate.
"The air down there makes me sick," he said, his voice dripping with disdain. "I'm used to the higher altitudes of living above the muck. I don't come down to engineering unless I absolutely have to. And, unfortunately, that's where you were."
Zand leaned back against the wall, unbothered by Tony's tone. "But that's where all the fun people are. I don't get how the air down there bothers you—it's the same air that circulates around the ship. We used to smell worse in the tanks."
The words hit Tony like a sharp blow, his posture stiffening. We used to smell worse in the tanks. He turned his head slightly, his cold eyes narrowing as he replayed the statement in his mind.
"Repeat that," Tony said softly, his voice suddenly razor-sharp. He didn't look at Zand, not yet.
"Which part, sir?" Zand asked, his easy demeanor faltering under the weight of Tony's tone.
"The part about the tanks, greenhorn," Tony said, turning back to the elevator doors. They began to slide open, revealing the well-lit corridors of the mid-decks.
Zand grinned sheepishly. "Oh, yeah. The tanks used to stink like hell, especially when someone cracked a can of ass in there. The kind of stink you couldn't scrub out, not until someone finally cracked the seal."
Zand chuckled at his own words, but the sound died in his throat when Tony slammed his hand against the control panel. The elevator doors shut with a resounding clang, and the room seemed to shrink around them. Slowly, deliberately, Tony turned to face him.
"How long have you been in the AFFS?" Tony's voice was low, the calm before a storm. He stepped closer, each movement measured and precise, closing the gap between them. "I'm curious because you don't look much older than me. I trained my entire life to be a mechwarrior. So, you mean to tell me you did not graduate from the New Avalon Military Academy?"
Zand faltered, the confident smirk draining from his face. "N-No, sir. I, uh, got promoted about four weeks ago, just as we were entering Taurian space. Before that, I was in the armored battalions. I've served about eight months, give or take."
Tony's lips pressed into a thin line. He stepped even closer, his eyes boring into Zand's. The air in the elevator seemed to grow heavier, oppressive.
"Eight months," Tony repeated, his voice barely more than a whisper. His tone carried more menace than any shout ever could. "You've been a soldier for eight months, and now you think you're ready to step into a mech? To fight alongside me?"
Zand swallowed hard, his back pressed against the elevator wall. The easy confidence he'd carried earlier was gone, replaced by a growing unease.
"You're a greenhorn, Zand," Tony hissed. "You don't know the first thing about being a mechwarrior. And yet, here you are, in my company, wasting my time. Eight months in tanks and you think that qualifies you to stand where I stand? To breathe the same air as me?" Tony's sheer presence at this radiated furious heat.
Zand opened his mouth to reply but found no words. His throat felt dry, and his thoughts scrambled. He shifted his weight awkwardly, stepping aside as the elevator chimed and the doors slid open. The bright, sterile lights of the mid-decks spilled into the enclosed space, doing little to ease the tension.
Tony didn't spare him a second glance as he stepped out, his movements crisp and purposeful. Zand hesitated for a beat, swallowing hard, before following him into the briefing room.
The room was as bland as Zand expected, with rows of simple benches arranged in neat lines and a projection wall dominating the far end. The air smelled faintly of cleaning solvent, and the sterile atmosphere only added to Zand's unease.
Tony walked to the front of the room, turning sharply to face Zand. He gestured briefly toward one of the benches, his voice clipped and cold.
"Take a seat, Zand," Tony ordered, his tone brooking no argument. "We're going to see if you have the mental capacity to absorb centuries of military history in a matter of weeks before we reach our destination."
Zand blinked, still reeling from the interaction in the elevator. He hesitated, then shuffled to the seat Tony had pointed out, his boots scuffing against the floor. Sitting rigidly, he tried not to meet Tony's gaze, but he could feel the weight of it, sharp and unforgiving.
Tony's lips curved into a faint smirk as he watched Zand comply. "I hope your mind works better than your mouth, greenhorn," he said, his words cutting like a blade. He turned toward the console at the front of the room, his fingers dancing across the controls. The projection wall came to life with a soft hum, displaying rows of dates, names, and diagrams of battles long past.
"Pay attention," Tony continued, his voice low but commanding. "This isn't just history—it's survival. Every decision, every maneuver, every failure—it's written here. And if you don't learn it, Zand, you'll be nothing more than another statistic."
Zand nodded silently, his eyes fixed on the glowing screen. For the first time since stepping into the elevator, he realized the weight of the expectations now resting on his shoulders. This wasn't just about piloting a mech; it was about proving himself to someone who seemed determined to see him fail.
Tony's voice cut through the stillness again, sharp and unrelenting. "Let's begin."
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
9.3.2578
Shiptime: 0734
Tony woke up in his soft, cozy, silk-lined bed, the weight of his blanket a comforting reminder of the luxuries afforded by his status. As he stared at the ceiling of his quarters, a rare smile creased his face. Pride swelled within him. Today was the day. Today, they would make planetfall on a Taurian outpost world.
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood with purpose, his movements deliberate and precise. Humming quietly to himself, Tony retrieved his officer's dress uniform, running his fingers over the polished fabric. Every detail of his appearance mattered today; it was a reflection of who he was—of what he represented.
He spent extra time grooming, ensuring his reflection in the mirror was one of perfection. Not a strand of hair was out of place, not a single crease dared mar his uniform. Satisfied, he clipped a sidearm into the holster at his hip, the weight of the pistol a comforting presence.
Before leaving, Tony approached the desk terminal in his quarters, scrolling through his inbox. Reports and requisitions scrolled past his eyes, none of them warranting more than a cursory glance. Nothing interesting, nothing worthy of his time. With a practiced motion, he cleared the inbox, brushing aside the minutiae of command.
Exiting his quarters, Tony strode purposefully down the corridors of the ship, the faint hum of its systems a backdrop to his thoughts. His destination was the officers' mess, where he indulged in a rare moment of calm. A steaming cup of rich coffee warmed his hands as he sat at a corner table, surveying the room.
Today wasn't just another mission. It was a statement. A reminder to the Taurian concordat that the Federated Suns always kept its promises.