Tychus Findlay

Dispatch Hall, Fort Howe, morning of July 16.

For Private Tychus Findlay, this was a good day, for it was his first day of freedom after escaping the hellhole that was the R-156 Federal Prison.

Tychus was a veteran; he had once been a staff sergeant, only a few Kel-Morian heads away from promotion to sergeant first class. However, after attempting to pilfer battlefield spoils, Tychus was not only stripped of his rank but also thrown into prison.

According to Article 14, Chapter 76, Section 2 of the Federal Uniform Military Code, Tychus should have been executed immediately. Perhaps the Marine commanders felt that a dead Marine was worth less than a criminal one, so he had managed to survive.

During his three-month mandatory labor sentence, Tychus had to work sixteen hours a day in a Federal mine, using explosives, carts, and pickaxes—the most primitive and dangerous methods—to extract ore without any protective gear. Even so, he had managed to pull through and was permitted to rejoin the Marine Corps as a private.

A transfer order moved Tychus and other soldiers reinstated for various reasons from his original post on the planet Reding III to Turaxis II, joining the garrison of the Federal Marine Corps at Fort Howe.

Because the fort was located in a frigid zone far from the equator, the soldiers standing guard outside the dispatch hall were all wearing thick grey wool coats, leather ear-flap hats, and tall leather boots. The troops stationed here were genuine Marines; they didn't need to wear flashy Power Armor or pilot decommissioned Goliath Mechs every day just to trick wide-eyed boys into enlisting.

Tychus tightened his thin shirt and walked into the bustling dispatch hall. The temperature inside was slightly higher, but it still left Tychus, who had adapted to the dry, sweltering climate of Reding III, shivering; the layer of "lovely" fat on his belly provided no warmth at all.

After being imprisoned, all of Tychus's personal belongings and equipment had been confiscated. Now, he wore only a shirt and a thin black nylon jacket, his only possessions being a few pairs of underwear and a sonic razor in his carry-on bag.

Now, Tychus had to push through the line of thirty or forty people ahead of him to reach the counter and report to the uniformed sergeant. Only then could he receive a set of thick new clothes and equipment to report for duty to his new commander.

Tychus walked straight past the long line, ignoring the surprised looks from those around him. He first pressed his belly against the mahogany edge of the counter, then nimbly used his massive, fleshy backside to nudge aside the soldier who was currently talking to the dispatch sergeant.

He rested his elbows on the smooth surface of the counter and pulled an ID card with identification functions from his pocket.

"Sergeant, old Tychus has some urgent business to attend to. I believe you can afford to open a door of convenience." Tychus pushed his ID card toward the sergeant while subtly sliding over a cigar that might not have been of the highest quality.

The soldier who had been pushed aside dared not speak out of anger. Compared to his own thin frame, Tychus stood six-and-a-half feet tall, a true giant. His build was terrifyingly massive, with a layer of thick fat over solid muscle, making him walk like a clumsy yet steady grizzly bear.

Tychus's dark brown hair was shaved into a crew cut, and his sharp features were etched with deep wrinkles; when he furrowed his thick brows or grew angry, those spreading wrinkles made him look even more fierce and intimidating.

"Private, cutting in line is not something a citizen of good character should do. As an excellent Federal Marine, you should strictly abide by Article 43 of the Marine Corps Regulations." The sergeant was a young man with brown hair and eyes. Behind his neck, or more precisely, just below his left ear, was a long, dark scar.

"What's the matter? You're not my mother." Tychus didn't yet realize this meant the man was a resocialized soldier, and his knowledge of such modified troops was pitifully thin. "Instead of wasting time yapping, you'd better hurry up and take this little pink card and stick it where it belongs."

Seeing that the sergeant didn't take his cigar, Tychus assumed the man looked down on the low-quality brand he'd gotten in prison. Since that was the case, he was happy to save the smoke.

"Yes, you are right." To Tychus's surprise, the sergeant actually agreed with his nonsensical and overbearing logic. "I indeed shouldn't keep those waiting in line any longer, and I am not your mother, nor do I have the responsibility to educate you."

Although the sergeant's voice was calm, serious, and earnest during the latter half of his statement, Tychus still felt insulted. But not wanting to go back to prison, Tychus had to swallow his pride for the moment. He decided to memorize the sergeant's face and find a chance later to give him a hard time when he went to the public bathhouse.

"Private Tychus Findlay, according to your orders, you are assigned to the First Platoon of the Third Garrison Company. Your squad leader is... Sergeant Augustus Mengsk." The sergeant said while typing on his keyboard.

"Sounds like a good name, let's hope he's not some greenhorn." Tychus grinned. "So, Sergeant, where do I go to collect my fluffy bedding, pillows, socks, and a leather coat that won't let me freeze to death right now?"

"..." The sergeant frowned, seemingly troubled by this question that fell outside the standard procedure. After his gaze swept across the computer screen, his brow smoothed out. "You are right; you should indeed receive gear suitable for a frigid zone. I sincerely apologize for my oversight."

"..." Tychus was momentarily speechless. He had never seen a sergeant sincerely apologize to a private. In the local Marine Corps of Reding III, where bureaucracy and corporal punishment were rampant, this usually signaled that the other party was about to make your life miserable.

Are Turaxis people always this polite? Doesn't that just make old Tychus look unrefined?

"Go to Supply Depot No. 7. Hand this to the person on duty there, and he will give you what you need." As the sergeant returned Tychus's ID card, he handed him an extra chip.

"That sounds decent." Tychus took the ID card and the chip, turned, and left. At the entrance, he boarded a bus heading deep into Fort Howe, eventually stopping in front of a flat, single-story building.

Supply Depot No. 7 had a silver-grey metal shell. On the shimmering metal walls were two massive turbine fans, and a metal pipe leading deep underground hummed with activity.

The depot gate was unguarded. Tychus swaggered inside, wondering if he might find an opportunity to "benevolently misappropriate" some supplies here to help those poor girls who were so destitute they had no clothes to wear.

The depot was spacious—a massive warehouse composed of rows of shelves several meters high, piled with cardboard boxes and footlockers. About seven or eight young soldiers in brown uniforms were unloading cargo in small groups, counting inventory, and climbing ladders to move goods onto or off the shelves.

At the only counter sat a spirited but occasionally sorrowful-looking soldier with short black hair and a neatly kept uniform. The name on his ID tag was James Raynor.

"Good morning, what can I do for you?" said Acting Logistics Sergeant Raynor.

Thanks to the monthly tickets from Da Zhou Qi Zi Che, You Xing Shen, San Ye Liu Li, The Little Hero Who Cannot Be Killed, Liu He Xiao Qing Nian, Liu Xi Tang, Di Sha Mo Ren, Zi Shi, Hei Si Fan Tuan, Book Friend 20170803164608387, Book Friend 160113080326406, Feng Chui De Wo Man Lian Sha, Ai Dang Suo Chong Ai Zhi Ren, and jerryszy. Thanks to The Little Hero Who Cannot Be Killed and Agent Rongrong for the tips.

Typed on mobile, please forgive any errors. Thanks for the support!