DATE: 01/06/501 PC

  LOCATION: Command Spire – Bastion Gamma

  The doors to Commander Elena Blightsorrow’s private office slid open with a sharp, pneumatic hiss. She didn't look up from her holographic tactical map immediately. "I heard the airlock report, Nightgaze. I expected you to be in a med-bay, not dripping blood on my—"

  She stopped mid-sentence as her gaze fell upon the object Zel set on her desk.

  The White Shard pulsed with a cold, rhythmic light, casting long, stark shadows across the room. Elena’s obsidian-rimmed eyes widened. She stood slowly, her fingers hovering just inches away from the crystalline heart.

  "A Warden's Shard," she whispered, the name of her house—Blightsorrow—seeming to weigh heavier on her shoulders. "You didn't just survive an encounter with a High Elven scout... you harvested him. On your first live drop."

  Zel leaned against the doorframe, his left arm tucked against his chest to steady the throbbing pain in his shoulder. His MBS was scarred, the black latex dull and scorched, but his expression was uncharacteristically sober.

  "The server array is in the processing bay. Mac and the others are being patched up," Zel said, his voice raspy.

  Elena pulled up the combat logs, her eyes darting through the data. She saw the "Burst-Overdrive" spikes, the mana-leak warnings, and the final, brutal exchange in the glass-fused mud. After a long silence, she looked back at him.

  "The Shard is a monumental catch, Azazel. It will power the Dome’s sub-grids for months," Elena said, her voice softening slightly. "But more importantly... you brought them back. Squad 4 has a 60% mortality rate for rookies. You brought every single one of them through the gate. That is a success I didn't think you were capable of."

  She tapped a command on her desk. "I’m approving your immediate promotion to Active Hunter status. I was going to assign you to the 'Iron Vultures'—a veteran squad of MBS elites. They need a Red-affinity for their next push into the Orcish territories."

  "No."

  The word was flat, leaving no room for negotiation. Elena paused, her brow furrowing. "Excuse me?"

  "I'm declining the reassignment, Commander," Zel said, pushing off the wall. He ignored the wince of pain from his shoulder. "I want my own squad. And I already have the first draft."

  Elena leaned back, her hands clasping behind her back. "You want to lead? You’re a rookie who almost got his reactor cracked open by a single archer."

  "I want Mac, Sara, and Jim," Zel stated firmly. "They know the terrain, they didn't run when things got ugly, and they've got more 'scrapping' experience than any three MBS elites combined. I’m forming my own unit. The MGM Corps stay with me."

  Silence stretched between them. Elena analyzed him with a cold, piercing intensity. In the history of the Bastions, MBS Operators were usually kept in elite clusters, separated from the "expendable" MGM personnel to maximize combat efficiency. Zel was asking for a hybrid unit—a logistical nightmare and a tactical gamble.

  "You realize what you're asking," Elena said slowly. "If they die under your command because you're playing hero, their blood isn't just on the Crusade's hands. It's on yours. You'd be tying your elite status to the survival of three non-augmented humans."

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  She looked at the White Shard, then back at the scarred man in the body-tight suit. "It's possible... but the Board of CEOs will expect results that justify the risk."

  DATE: 01/06/501 PC

  LOCATION: Command Spire & Logistics Wing – Bastion Gamma

  Elena Blightsorrow watched Zel with a clinical, predatory curiosity. "Very well, Nightgaze. If you wish to anchor your career to the survival of the MGM Corps, I will allow it. But the Board will not fund a 'pet project.' Your first official mission as a lead Hunter is in fourteen days."

  She pulled up a map of Sector 7. "The Bastion is planning to push the Dome's defensive perimeter deeper into the Shattered Thicket. We need to establish a forward sensor array beyond the elven ruins. Your job is a deep-scouting run to ensure the path is clear of 'Warden' interference. If you fail, the expansion fails. And you will be billed for the loss of equipment."

  "I accept," Zel said without hesitation.

  The credit transfer for the White Shard was astronomical. To the CEOs, it was just numbers; to Zel, it was more than his squad could have earned in three lifetimes of scavenging. Most Hunters would have spent it on suit upgrades, high-end booze, or a luxury suite in the upper spires. Zel did none of that.

  He ignored the burning ache in his shoulder and went straight to the Logistics Wing.

  "I need three sets of 'Spectre-Class' Tactical Rigging," Zel told the quartermaster, slapping his ID on the counter.

  The quartermaster raised an eyebrow. "The military-grade MGM suits? Kid, those are designed for frontline infantry. Most scavengers stick to the brown jumpsuits because they’re cheap to replace."

  "I’m not buying standard," Zel said, his eyes hard. "I want them in tactical black. No standard-issue brown. I want the reinforced plating, integrated mana-shields, and the latest Mk. IV long-range scanners."

  He pulled up a digital design on his datapad—a snarling, stylized wolf head in stark white against a void-black background. "And I want this insignia on the back of every suit. Call the template 'Void Wolf'."

  The quartermaster whistled. "Black plating? A custom wolf insignia? You’re turning them into a private army. You know the other Elites are going to laugh at you, right? They call MGM personnel 'trashy meat shields' for a reason."

  "Let them laugh," Zel muttered. "They won't be laughing when my 'meat shields' are the ones pulling their reactors out of the mud."

  An hour later, Zel walked into the Med-bay carrying three heavy gear crates. He found Mac, Sara, and Jim in the recovery ward. Mac was sitting up, his arm in a regenerative cast, while Sara was staring at the ceiling, her eyes still haunted by the memory of the white arrow.

  "You look like hell," Zel said, kicking a chair over and sitting down.

  "We heard the news, Zel," Mac said, his voice heavy. "The Command log updated. You rejected the Vultures? Are you insane? You could have been set for life."

  "I am set for life," Zel replied. He kicked the crates toward them. "And so are you. Open them."

  Jim pulled the latch on the first crate. His eyes widened. Instead of the flimsy, mud-stained brown fabric they usually wore, he found a high-tech, body-tight tactical suit. It was a non-core version of an MBS—reinforced with flexible armor plates, a built-in life support system that could handle high-density mana for days, and a gleaming black helmet with an integrated HUD. On the back, the white wolf snarled.

  "What is this?" Sara whispered, reaching out to touch the sleek, black plating.

  "This is the Void Wolf squad," Zel said, his voice dropping to a serious tone. "In two weeks, we head back out. No more scavenging for scraps. We’re a hybrid unit. Elena approved it. You guys get military pay, military housing, and the best tech money can buy. But it means you aren't just scavengers anymore. You're soldiers."

  Mac looked at the black suit, then at the scarred shoulder of Zel’s own suit. He knew what this meant. In the Bastion, hybrid squads were rare because Elites viewed MGM personnel as expendable garbage. Zel was offering them a chance to be more, but he was also painting a target on their backs.

  "Void Wolves, huh?" Mac let out a short, sharp breath, a small smirk finally tugging at his weathered face. "Sounds a lot better than 'trashy meat shields'."

  "Good," Zel stood up, wincing as his shoulder reminded him of its existence. "Now get healed up. In fourteen days, we show the Bastion what happens when the wolves leave the dome."