Commander Ward marched his Thunderbolt to the repair bay, and descended the elevator from the adjacent catwalk. Lance was waiting for him at the bottom, holding a data pad. He was visibly nervous, his gaze shifting from place to place. Ward paid this no heed, and began walking right past him.
"Sir." Lance's tone was unsure.
"Yes, Mr. Trephore?" Ward slowly turned to face Lance.
"I have a proposition for you. One I'm not sure you can afford to pass up."
"If you're trying to sell me some old parts, forget it." The Commander's tone grew short. "I just want to fix these 'Mechs, and get out of here."
"Not parts." Lance finally got a handle on his voice, banished the uncertainty. "I think you'd be no worse off with a couple fresh MechTechs, and potentially, a MechWarrior-in-training."
The Commander looked Lance up and down, once. A chuckle escaped through his nose. "You're fucking kidding, right?"
"No, sir. I am not."
"Then who's this "we"? You got a mouse in your pocket?"
"A blonde mouse, and a damn good MechTech. His name's Michael Slate."
"And this untrained MechWarrior?"
"That'd be me. I already know how to walk a 'Mech. You just gotta teach me to shoot."
"Kid, there's a whole hell of a lot more to it than that."
"All of that can be taught." The pace of the exchange quickened.
"I'm not paying for untrained techs, let alone MechWarriors. Forget it." Ward tried to force his way past Lance.
"I have something other guys don't."
Ward stopped, briefly. "And what might that be?"
"I have a 'Mech." Lance's words hung between them somewhere between an offer and a challenge.
The Commander chuckled once more, returned his gaze to Lance. "You? Really? Where the hell did you even find one?"
"That much is irrelevant. The point is, I have one, and you need one."
Frankly, Commander Ward didn't believe Lance in the slightest. In his mind, this was just a ploy to hitchhike to the next system. Very well then. Perhaps a challenge will bring out the truth. "Fine. Show up right here, o-six hundred. with your 'Mech, or the deal's off."
"Yes sir!" Excitement touched Lance's voice as Mr. Ward finally forced his way past him.
Lance sprinted to the supply warehouse where he was sure to find Michael, his mind racing and fantasizing about the adventures to come. Romanticizing life as a mercenary, and reveling in the thought of paying off his debts while supporting his mother. He came to the warehouse, and saw it in its usual organized chaos. The space was filled with crates, pallets, warehouse workers, inventory managers, and MechTechs requisitioning materials. On most days, Michael was all of the above.
Lance searched for Michael amid the chaos, focusing on features like height, and his curly blonde hair as markers for Mikey's presence. A process which Lance used often, but tried his patience just as much, as he had this way of blending into his workplace, and becoming impossible to find. More often than not, it was Michael that found Lance.
"Hey!" lance heard Mikey's voice from behind him. He was driving a forklift carrying a large metal crate containing an array of nondescript 'Mech armor material. "Get out of the way!" Michael's tone was more of a taunt than a demand. He knew very well that Lance required his attention. It was the only reason he ever came to the warehouses.
"Mikey," Lance's tone was laced with defiance. "You know why I'm here."
"To sulk about how you were rejected again?"
"Guess again, asshole." This response genuinely shocked Michael. Not the insult attached, Michael expected nothing less. But instead, it was the fact that his guess was incorrect. Lance had been rejected by many a mercenary company. Michael had assumed this would be no different.
"So, you got the job?"
"Not yet." Lance's tone grew unsure. "He wants us to put on a bit of a show first."
"What kind of show?"
"He wants us to present ourselves, and my 'Mech at six in the morning."
"So..." Michael's speech was slow, calculated. "What you're saying... Is that he has unrealistic expectations?"
"Well, I made an unrealistic offer. A 'Mech and two MechTechs for just the price of the MechTechs."
"Did you tell him that your 'Mech only walks?" The question was a direct challenge to Lance's negotiation strategy. "That it's missing basically its entire right side?"
Lance paused, weighing his response in a desperate bid to avoid this momentary embarrassment. "Well... I didn't tell him it was in perfect condition either..."
Michael chuckled. "He's going to wring your fucking neck, dude."
Lance dismissed the remark, "Look, we've got a shitload of prep work to do, okay? We need to let Old Man George know what's going on, that I've got a bite, and we need to get permission to get my 'Mech out of the 'Mech bay."
"Whelp..." Michael's tone was completely deadpan. "There goes the rest of my shift, and with it, today's pay."
"Put it on my fucking tab!" Lance completely dismissed the remark as he marched back out of the warehouse to find George. "Now, are you coming or not?"
Lance and Michael both weaved their way through the repair and supply depot, towards the foreman's office, George's usual workplace. His stride carried an old, and for the past two years, missed sort of spring. Something George took note of as Lance burst into his office.
"Got somethin' to tell me, boy?" George's voice was like a grandfather speaking to an eager toddler.
"Hell yeah, I do!" Lance's voice held a joy and excitement which George had sorely missed. "I've got arrangements to present my 'Mech to a mercenary company!" George understood the excitement surrounding a soon-to-be accomplished goal, but didn't care for the enthusiasm regarding joining a mercenary company of all things. Alas, like all things surrounding the trade, this situation included, it was a necessary evil.
"Alright then," George forced himself to hide his agitation. He still loathed the idea of Lance joining a bunch of mercenaries. "What's their company name?"
"They call themselves Ward's Cavaliers." George recognized the name. There was a damn good chance he'd interacted with their commander at least once before. "The have a Union-class dropship, and everything! And, they want me to present my 'Mech at six in the morning tomorrow."
George was unsure of this. Usually, it was only the great houses and their militaries that had access to such machines. Them, and Comstar.
"You be careful, lad..." George's tone was laced with concern. There were myriads of reasons for such. "I don't know what sort of debt they're haulin' around, but they seem a bit small to be flyin' a Union. Yer sure you know what you're walking into?"
"I don't have that luxury. If they had any sort of debt to their names, they wouldn't be interested in hiring me."
"They're not interested in you, Lance!" George's tone, as sharp as it was, still carried a genuineness which he'd become known for. "They're interested in your 'Mech. There's nothing stopping them from selling it, and laying you off on your first day just to help pay their debts."
"By now, that's a risk I'm going to have to take."
As much as George hated it, Lance was right. He was out of time, and this was the only chance to present itself. As much as he wanted to stop lance, to 'Set him straight', he couldn't. "Alright then," His voice a defeated sigh. "I assume you require access to your 'Mech?"
"You assume correctly, sir." Lance's voice held a rare confidence. "And... Thank you."
"Don't thank me boy..." George's tone was cold, almost lamenting. "This can bring you no joy. You do this only because you have to, not because you want to, understood?"
Lance's shoulders slumped slightly before he left the foreman's office. He knew George was right. Regardless of why he was joining them, these Ward's Cavaliers are just mercenaries, no different from any others. Michael waited just outside for him. His voice held its usual playful undertones.
"So... How'd it go? Did you get the boss man's blessing?"
"Begrudgingly so. But yes."
Michael turned to walk away, but was interrupted as Lance spoke once more. His tone was weary, holding old warnings. "Just... Let's try not to be like the other mercenaries. I have something to fight for, other than creds. I'm hoping that's enough."
Michael turned back towards Lance. "You make these guys sound like a bunch of pirates." His tone was somewhere between dismissive and reassuring. "Relax. You're doing a good thing. Even if they tend not to."
"I guess..." Lance's voice held uncertainty. He was ashamed now; of the fantasies he'd held for life as a mercenary. He knew what Goerge and Mother had said about mercenaries. How there is no loyalty except to the next paycheck, the next contract. But it was lucrative work, and that's what Lance needs right now.
The rest of the day proceeded as expected. Lance and Michael began work on Commander Ward's Thunderbolt while George made arrangements for them to commandeer the Hunchback and present it to the Commander. Lance noticed the Commander watching him work from the boot of the Thunderbolt. He wasn't sure if he was there to assess him, or to protect his most expensive machine.
Lance felt a need to impress him, to sweeten the deal. If he showed he was worth the Commander's time, he was more likely to hire him and Michael.
'I just have to look busy, right? Well, I obviously am, but I'm just cutting out molten myomer bundles right now. There's nothing impressive about that.'
By the time he looked back, the Commander was nowhere to be seen.
"Damn..." He said to Michael. "For an older guy, he moves fast."
Michael laughs, briefly. "It's not that hard to hide here. You can lose and entire 'Mech if you're not careful. Trust me, I know."
Lance leaned back against the inner wall of the 'Mech's armor, his laser-cutter turned off. "God, I remember that day..."
"How could you forget?" Michael laughed from the catwalk just below Lance where he set down the myomer slag chunks Lance had cut free. "My instruction was to have a Locust moved from storage to one of the 'Mech repair bays for some final maintenance before we sold it. The only problem was I moved it to the wrong repair bay. One that someone else needed minutes later. Last they'd heard, the Locust was still in storage, so they just moved it back there. When I returned to the repair bay and saw something that most certainly was not a Locust standing there, you can imagine the panic that set in."
"And yet..." Lance's voice was laced with a sort of mocking ponderance which assaulted Michael's pride. "Instead of going back to storage to look, or going to Old Man George, you came to me. I remember my response too. "What the fuck you want me to do about it?!"" A chuckle escapes Lance, Probably the first genuine relief of tension he's had all year. "As if I had some magical solution, or could grant wishes." He shook his head. An old, dearly missed sense of calm washed over him. And for once, Michael felt like he was making some headway with the guy.
"Alright," Lance's voice shattered the calm, cutting through the other sounds of the depot. "Let's get our asses back to work."
In the distance, Commander Ward was still watching them, partially obscured from behind the courtyard dense with movement. "They've got a good deal of synergy on their side..."
From immediately behind him, a young woman's voice rang from the shadows. It was cold, deliberate. She leaned against the wall of a warehouse. "When they're working, at least... I've been watching them for five minutes, and for three of those, they've just been talking." She was dismissive in her statement. "You're sure they're worth keeping?"
"We don't exactly have a choice... We're short on MechTechs, and MechWarriors. And they're bringing a 'Mech with them." There was uncertainty in the Commander's voice. The sort that suggested he was telling himself this just as much as he was telling her.
"Whatever you need to tell yourself, dad." The girl retreated deeper into the shadows before disappearing. "Just know that I'm not picking up their toys..."
Day rolls into night. Michael and Lance's shift comes to a close, and they begin making the final preparations to commandeer the Hunchback and present it to Commander Ward. That night brought them no rest. They cleared the courtyard, and flooded it with light. Six o'clock came just before dawn, the horizon was molten gold while the sky still held the void of the Inner Sphere. Commander Ward stood in front of his Union-class dropship, a massive metal egg capable of holding twelve BattleMechs. A large metal mug of steaming coffee rested in his hands, his eyes still half-shut from the morning fog resting in the front of his mind. The steam alone went a long way to keeping them open.
"Where the hell is that kid?" He grumbled to himself. Speculation began to play on his mind. 'What if he was just some attempted hitchhiker? If so, what kind of 'tard would you have to be to even attempt that with any mercenary, let alone myself? No, he doesn't seem all that 'tarded. Easily distracted, but not 'tarded. So then, what the fuck is taking him so long?'
He looked down at his wrist-worn communicator. In particular, the time it displayed. Ten after six.
'This better be forth the fucking wait.'
In the distance, a low thump and rumble briefly tickled the ground beneath the Commander's feet. Again, only slightly stronger now. Again, slightly stronger. And again. Soon, the rumbling ran up through his body, sending ripples through his coffee. From the shadows and into the floodlights emerges the promised BattleMech.
The Commander immediately identified the 'Mech as a Hunchback, despite the obvious damage. Its head had been recently replaced, as well as most of its armor, indicated by its unpainted silver hull. But it was still missing its right arm, and the autocannon housing on its right shoulder was hollow. It was clear the damaged weapon had been removed. It was a sub-par Hunchback in its current state, but still a Hunchback. Michael followed close behind, driving a forklift. His presence served only to remind the Commander that he was joining Lance if he got the job.
Lance emerged from the hatch in the back of the Hunchback's head, and stood atop the machine. 'This is it.' he thinks. 'Either I'm packing my bags, or I skipped tonight's rest for nothing.' He looks down at the Commander, a show of confidence, with a hint of defiance. "So, did I get the job?"
The Commander looked up at the 'Mech, not at Lance. In this moment, that was his prize. Finding a BattleMech outside the battlefield was rare enough. Let alone getting one just for the price of the MechTechs who will be maintaining it.
"You're a tenacious little shit, I'll give you that much." He was genuinely surprised at the sight, and at the fact that Lance had somehow got this machine operational. Still, he was inexperienced, and would be more of a hinderance than anything for a while. "But let's make a few things very clear."
Lance nodded in response as the Commander continued. "First off, you come with the 'Mech. Not the other way around. Second, we'll help you fix it up the rest of the way, but it's coming out of your paycheck until it's in full working order, understood?"
"Understood sir!" Lance's voice held a newfound vigor. He knew very well he'd have no money to spare, but frankly, he didn't care. He was finally in a position to pay for his mother's care, and could give the leftovers to his new Commander for the Hunchback's repairs.
"Don't get too excited..." The Commander's tone ventures into the realm of the dismissive. "You and your current boss are still under contract to fix my shit. We leave only when you finish that. Not a moment sooner."
Lance came to George and his mother that morning before work, only just short of singing the news to the hilltops. Relief was within reach. Relief from debts and from shadows. He flew through the front door, his voice laced with joy and triumph. "I got the job!"
Miranda lay on the couch while Lillia stood beside her. George was only half awake in the early-morning rush. The cheers were only half-hearted, reserved only for the path forward it carved. Not the job itself. George, and Miranda still strongly disapproved of mercenary life, and were less than impressed by Lance's misplaced enthusiasm. He still romanticized the idea of mercenaries.
"Guys?" Lance's voice held mild confusion. He noticed the somewhat hollow, almost sarcastic nature of their cheers. Miranda, to weak even to speak, shot a worried glance at George, who pinched the bridge of his nose before speaking. "Edmund... Mercenary life is not a good thing. I've told you, 'Do not take pleasure in this.'"
"I don't." Lance's tone grew short, defensive. "I know you guys have your doubts regarding mercs, but I'm not like them. I never will be. I do this because mom needs me to." He gestured towards Miranda. "That's what I'm excited about." He knew very well that was bullshit. He found a great deal of satisfaction in this. But he still felt a need to tell himself otherwise, hoping that maybe he could mask it even to himself.
Lillia sighed and spoke. Her voice was small, sweet, somewhat melodic. She saw through his bullshit, but opted for a much gentler approach. "Just... Don't lose yourself, Edmund... You stand atop a very slippery slope. Don't tempt that fact."
"I won't..." Lance stammered and fumbled over his words, obviously unprepared for the mixed response to the big news. Before he could gather himself, George cut him off. "Did you get any sleep at all last night, Edmund?"
"No, sir..." Lance's answer held just a touch of embarrassment. "Getting my Hunchback ready and presenting it took longer than I'd have liked. But it's fine... I'll keep my fatigue out of my work."
"We'll see about that..."
Over the next several weeks, Lance, Michael, and the rest of the repair and supply depot worked diligently to repair Ward's 'Mechs. Commander Ward paid very close attention, not to the repairs, not to the larger crew, but to Lance and Michael. As unskilled as they were, they worked with an almost inhuman synergy, turning tedious tasks like clearing debris or fastening armor plates to the internal frames into little more than an inconvenience. However, such tasks were all they seemed to know how to do, in regards of BattleMech repair and maintenance. All of this translated only into untapped potential in the Commander's mind.
"Yer sure we need those lads?" An aged Scottish voice growled behind the Commander, who watched the boys at a distance, standing in the shadow of a warehouse. "They don't know a gun barrel from a bullet hole, let alone the rest of the 'Mech."
"All of that can be taught, Haiden..." The Commander's voice grew short. "Besides, they already have something that can't. And I'm pretty sure you can see it too."
"Aye, sir... They're a good team, but that's about all they are. And I'm no teacher. I know what I know, but I haven't the vaguest clue how to pass it on. Nor do I have the interest, sir."
"Well that's just too damn bad, Haiden." The Commander turned abruptly to face the old Scotsman. He carried himself as if her were just an average mechanic, complete with all virtues and vices thereof. "You'd better figure that out here soon. Once they finish with Cass' Vindicator, they're your problem. Understood, MechTech?"
Haiden sighed. He knew damn well they needed those boys. As it stands, there simply weren't enough MechTechs to maintain all of their 'Mechs, hence their visit to the Kathil III Repair and Supply. "Aye, sir..."
Lance and Michael stood on the catwalk which rose near the Vindicator's right arm, prepping the damaged Particle Projector Cannon for removal. "Just a couple more days..." Michael's voice was laced with both anticipation and uncertainty. He has many times acknowledged the necessity of leaving to join a company of 'Mercs, but unlike Lance, he held no fantasies, no naive dreams, no visions of massive machines stomping their way through scores of enemy forces to return triumphant. No, he saw this as just bare necessity, something he has to do. For Lance's sake. As the day of their departure drew closer, his light-hearted nature grew heavier. The silence became dense, and plagued his interactions with his dear friend, Edmund Lance Trephore.
Lance's voice, while it still held that spring which had lingered for several weeks, also held genuine concern and curiosity. "And you've convinced your folks to let you come with?"
"While they weren't thrilled about my joining a bunch of mercs, they were fully supportive about me leaving. They practically offered to pack my bags for me..." Michael's subtle admission hung between them. "And honestly? I'm considering accepting that offer..." A rare irritation touched Michael's voice. Irritation at what he was sacrificing for Lance's sanity. An obligation he's put upon himself, and refused to let go.
For the briefest moment, the 'spring' left Lance's voice. "Ouch... Sounds dangerously close to them kicking you out. What the hell did you do?"
"With those psychos? Who the fuck knows? One day, they're angry because of something they think I did, the next, because of something I didn't do. They're just always angry with me. Never gave me a straight answer as to why. All I know now is I want out, and they want me out. So, good fucking riddance." Uncertainty touches Michael's voice as he continues. "The sooner we get the hell out of here, the better."
Lance's concern for Michael swelled, and for the briefest moment eclipsed his own fantasies about mercenaries and BattleMechs. "And you're sure you believe that?"
"Yeah, I am, Lance." The irritation turned toward Lance, briefly. To Michael, this was an unacceptable failure. "Sorry... Just... Forget I said anything. When Mr. Ward calls us to his ship, I'll be there. Promise."
"That's not what I'm worried about." Lance trailed off to resume his task, cutting away at the frame keeping the PPC in place, prepping it for removal.
That week, Lance and Michael clocked out for the last time, and returned home for one last night's rest on their home world. Come dawn, it was time for them to leave that all behind. Lance, so he could pay for his mother's care. Michael, so he could make sure Lance stayed sane, and safe.
Having sold all his personal belongings to pay for his mother's care, Lance had nothing to pack but himself. He sank into the driver's seat of his father's truck. The wheel felt different that early morning. There was an odd warmth behind the morning cold clinging to the polymer. A warmth that begged him to stay. A beg he had to refuse.
He drove up to Michael's house to see him standing on the curb, carrying only a single bag. He stood almost worryingly still. No joy, no spring, no smugness behind his eyes. He settled in the passenger side, but did not break the silence beyond this. A silence that grew painfully awkward.
"So..." Lance finally spoke. "You excited to finally have some fun?"
"I'm excited to get the hell out of here." Michael said flatly. "Nothing more."
"You sound mad."
Michael's response was a sigh, laced with fatigue and subtle irritation. "Let's not open this can of worms, Lance. Not this early."
"Trust me, Mikey, problems like these don't get better with time."
"You say that as if it's a problem that can be solved by talking."
"Then how do we fix it, Mikey?"
"We don't... Not right now." Another silence fell between them, briefly. "Look, it's something I've put on myself, and it's something I'll solve myself, alright?"
"Alright..." Lance's answer was quiet, doubting. Something was off. Something deeper than family troubles or leaving home. The blatant dismissal was akin to something that nearly got Lance killed weeks prior. This is a very dangerous position for the both of them.
Before driving to the supply and repair depot, Lance and Michael stopped by George's house, where Miranda still lays ill, but alive. There was no guarantee either Lance or Michael would ever see them again. When they entered, the entire room stilled. Miranda lays on the couch, right where she was yesterday, and the day before. Despite being in an objectively better place, seeing her like this still tied knots in Lance's stomach. George poured his coffee, and sipped at the bitter blackness. His gaze was fixed on Lance.
"Edmund... Michael..." George acknowledged them. Little more. He knew they had to leave, but simply couldn't get over the fact that they're going to live a mercenary's life. And he knew Lance was far too excited for such. "Would you like some coffee before you go?"
As good as coffee sounded, Lance couldn't shake his mother's worried gaze, and George's lack of a 'Godspeed' or even a 'Good luck'. It's not that he felt entitled to such mantras, but their absence betrayed George's stance on the matter. Both he and Michael knew George never approved of mercenary life. But Lance would be different. He's joining for a good reason, right?
He could taste his own bullshit. While yes, getting his mother the care she needed was the primary reason for joining these mercs, he figured it would be a fun adventure. He'd work on all the best 'Mechs, for the Inner Sphere's best pay, and who knows? Perhaps one day he'd be a 'MechWarrior just like his father before him.
"Coffee sounds great!" Michael forces the rays of sun to return to his voice and demeanor. He did so in such a way that if it weren't for his conversation with Lance earlier, Lance would believe it to be genuine. Why did he wear this mask? Why only with George, Lillia, and Mother? And what if the Mikey he knew before was also just a mask? Lance buried these thoughts for now.
George poured Lance and Michael's coffee. Lance wasn't sure if it was morning fatigue or lament that slowed his movement. Lance only spoke again after accepting the coffee. "Look, guys. If there's something you want to say, you need to say it now."
George hesitated. "Make no mistake. You need to do this. For your Mother. But you are going about it the complete wrong way."
Lance sighed. "I've heard this a thousand times now, George. You've told me time and time again that I "can't take pleasure in this", that "this is only out of necessity", that "there's no honor in mercenary life". I know all that. But, because this is a long-term arrangement, I am choosing to take some pleasure in it for the sake of maintaining my sanity, alright?" Again, Lance could taste his own bullshit. If anything, being told not to take pleasure in this make his fantasies more vivid. Even now, with Goerge's lamenting gaze, he could see himself behind his Hunchback's controls, charging toward payday. He's never heard an AC/20's discharge before, but in his mind, it was a thunderous roar that tosses forests aside with its wake.
Time for their visit grew short. The horizon turned from gold to blue as the sun rose high, and the time for the mercenaries to depart approached rapidly. Lance and Michael finished their coffee, and turned to leave. lance turned one last time to meet his mother's worried gaze. He so dearly wished to embrace her one last time, but he couldn't. She was a fragile thing, with no functioning immune system to speak of. For the love of God, she could barely move. He wanted to tell her he loves her, but felt like he couldn't afford the weakness. Not when similar weakness nearly killed him months prior. No. If he didn't now, he may not get the chance again. He was unwilling to let that become a reality.
"I love you, mom... You know that, right?"
Tears filled her eyes, and her already shallow breath began to shake as she silently wept. George broke the sudden silence, leaving Lance with one final warning. "Don't try to become something you're not, Lance. Remember whose son you are. James fought just as many mercenaries as he did Capellans and Kuritans. Remember what you are, and what you cannot become, understood?"
Lance knew damn well George was right. His mind raced with every possible excuse. None of them were true. He wanted to honor his father, and his legacy, but simply didn't care for allegiance to a great house. He didn't care for honor now. He only cared for getting his mother the care she needs, paying off his debts, and his new life as a mercenary. The truth makes itself known only to himself. He has heard what George, and Lillia, and his mother, have all had to say. He has simply chosen to go a different rout. Not for the sake of his sanity, not for the sake of making mercenary life bearable, but simply for the sake of what it was. Mercenary life genuinely did appeal to him.
It's not like the Federated Suns, or House Davion had done anything for him, other than control the system he called home. They let his father die, and as a reward, for a time, they paid for treatment that didn't work. They abandoned him and his mother, left them to scrounge for enough scraps to maybe pay for the next useless appointment. He was done with that. His only allies were himself, and Michael. The only man who stood with him on this.
The pause between them stretched as Lance finally let himself see the truth, but refused to share it. Not even now. "Understood, sir." He left that house with a sort of cold in his mind. A cold that turned itself toward George, toward Lillia, and Lord have mercy, toward even his own mother. His own ill, incapacitated, hurting mother. This was the only shame he carried. He carried no shame for his decision.
"Thank you for the coffee, George." Michael's voice held a much needed gentleness, and was the only defusing force in the now volatile air. Fear grew in his chest through the entire exchange. Fear of what might ensue of either Lance, or Goerge were completely honest with each other. He held tight to his mask, in the hopes that doing so will maintain the peace, even as both he and Lance departed.
The ride from George's house to the depot held just as much tension as the near altercation between he and Lance. Michael had inadvertently let his mask show in front of Lance. He knew this would spark questions in Lance's mind. Sure enough, Lance let his questions slip off his tongue.
"So, how long have you been wearing that mask?" His gaze did not flinch from the road, the streetlights had just shut off, making way for the morning sun.
"Just about all of it, I promise." Michael's tone turned defensive. "I only started pretending after that storm, when my folks went psycho. Usually, I was only pretending with them. I don't know when, or why I started pretending with you guys... But I am sorry."
"Don't say that, Mikey..." Lance sighed, in this odd in-between a dismissal, and something genuine. "Don't apologize for shit that ain't your fault. If anything, I should apologize to you."
"Bullshit." Michael said flatly. "It's not your fault, Lance. Don't be telling yourself it is, alright? Look, just like your, this is something I've put on myself. It has nothing to do with you."
Those words carved deep into the both of them. To Michael, he knew its falsehood. He knew the burden he'd taken unto himself had everything to do with Lance. He'd grown a sort of attachment to Lance, seeing him as a sort of emotional anchor. One he was unwilling to part with. To Lance, it put more light to his past failures. How his stubbornness had nearly killed him, and how he bore the weight of the Inner Sphere on his shoulders. Now, Michael was in danger of making the same mistake.
Lance parked his father's truck at the Kathil III Repair and Supply Depot one last time. His hands lingered on the wheel for a moment too long. A brief moment where his fantasies of 'Mech battles and thick paychecks faltered, and made way for the first moment of genuine contemplation. Thoughts of charging advances were replaced with images of George's begrudging retreat. Full Mechbays replaced with his mother's empty breath. Visions of triumph made way for Michael's mask.
'What the fuck?' he asked himself, hands still tight on the wheel. 'Why am I doing this? The correct answer is "to pay for Mom's care", isn't it? Then why does that feel like bullshit? Goerge says I shouldn't want this. But... I do? I do want this. What is "this"? Mercenary life, right? Yeah... I just want to be a mercenary... That's it.' Even now he lied to himself. And it tasted like ash and shit.
"So, are you coming or not, Lance?" Michael's tone was a taunt, but approached impatience.
"Yeah..." There was no breath behind the word. "Just gotta say goodbye to this one last thing."
His grip tightened on the steering wheel for just a moment longer. 'I'll be back, girl.'
