Chapter Text
SLS Renown, Zenith Jump Point,
System EG800142T, The Gulf
18th February, 2802
The firestones of the rosary were always warm now.
Sixteen-year-old Kenny Moffat sat on a cold, ribbed metal bench in the cavernous cargo bay of the Renown, his right hand buried deep in the oversized pocket of his SLDF utility jacket. He rolled the faceted beads between his thumb and forefinger, feeling the unnatural, pulsing heat radiating from the heirloom. It felt like a living thing, a tether to the mother he had watched vanish into a sphere of white-hot plasma on the ruined surface of Arcadia.
He didn't cry anymore. The tears had burned out of him somewhere in the deep black between the Pentagon Worlds and the Kerensky Cluster. In their place was a cold, absolute void, a vacuum waiting to be filled.
On the other side of the bay, the remnants of the 131st BattleMech Division stood in formation. They were the ghosts of Arcadia. Their olive-drab uniforms were stained with oil and the phantom scents of ozone and blood. Near the front stood Lieutenant Steven Breen, a fresh, jagged scar cutting through his hairline, his posture parade-perfect despite the exhaustion painting his features. Leading the entire group was Major Aeneas Pryde, the most senior surviving officer, his arm locked in a rigid splint, his eyes staring blankly at the massive airlock doors.
Despite their tattered states, they snapped into tight, neat rows. Chins were held high above blood-stained collars. Shoulders remained squared beneath cracked body armor. It was a silent, unyielding wall of discipline; a physical declaration that Arcadia had tried to break them, and Arcadia had failed. They had accomplished their almost impossible mission to evacuate the civilians willing to join Nicholas Kerensky. The Hercules Division might be a sorry state of its former self, but what was left of it would bear their scars and wounds with pride.
Huddled close to Kenny were the remnants of his family. Eric was pale and still sedated, staring blankly at the pinned-up right sleeve where his arm used to be. Elena leaned her head against Kenny’s shoulder, trapped in a selective mutism that hadn't broken since they left the tarmac at the Nenets mag-lev yards. Karen Nagasawa stood behind them, her hands resting protectively on Kenny and Elena’s shoulders, concern writ deeply in her eyes. Other families were sprawled across the cargo hold, trying to hang onto any semblance of normalcy in these desperate times.
The deck plates vibrated with a deep, resonant hum as a ship docked with the Renown.
The Renown had jumped into the rendezvous system an hour ago as part of the evacuation fleet assigned to Arcadia. Through the small, reinforced viewports, Kenny had seen the constellation of man-made stars waiting for them in the dark. Dozens of jumpships, dropships, and massive, predatory warships holding station. At the center of the armada, cutting a terrifying silhouette against the stars, was the McKenna’s Pride.
The heavy airlock doors at one end of the cargo bay hissed, the massive gears grinding as they parted, releasing a rush of sterilized, pressurized air.
A contingent of heavily armed marines stepped through, forming a precise honor guard. Then, Major General Nicholas Kerensky entered the bay.
Kenny watched him closely. He had grown up hearing stories of Aleksandr Kerensky, the Great General who radiated a weary, paternal warmth, the savior of the Star League. Nicholas was different. He possessed his father’s undeniable, magnetic gravity, but he projected a cold, terrifying intensity. His eyes were sharp, calculating, sweeping over the battered survivors of the 131st with an analytical precision that missed nothing.
Nicholas walked the line in absolute silence, the only sound the sharp click of his magnetic boots on the deck plates. He stopped before Major Pryde. They exchanged short, sharp salutes.
Major Pryde barked, “Major General Kerensky, 131st Battlemech Division, reporting for duty, sir!”
“Major Aeneas Pryde,” Nicholas said, his voice carrying effortlessly through the cavernous bay. It was a voice designed to command, lacking any of the hesitation that Kenny often heard from the SLDF generals on Arcadia. “The 131st has performed beyond the call of duty. You held the line against anarchy when the rest of the world chose madness. The Star League is dead, Major, but the iron discipline of the 131st will be crucial as we forge the future.”
“We did our duty, General Kerensky,” Pryde responded, his voice a gravelly rasp. “But the cost was severe. General Lauder... and so many others… They did not make the journey.”
The memory of that final frenzied evacuation sent a sharp pain through Kenny’s chest. He squeezed the firestones tighter, his knuckles turning bone-white.
Nicholas nodded slowly, his expression solemn but devoid of pity. “I know. The sacrifices of General Reyna Lauder and the slain of the 131st will be etched into the bedrock of the society we are going to build. They did not die for a failed Star League. They did not die for the petty, squabbling warlords of the Inner Sphere. They died so that you might live to forge something greater. They are the martyrs of our new genesis.”
Nicholas’s gaze drifted past the officers, settling on the young dependents. He looked at Eric’s empty sleeve, at Elena’s hollow, shell-shocked eyes, and finally, he looked directly at Kenny.
Kenny met the Major General’s gaze. He didn't flinch. He didn't look away out of respect or fear. He stared back with the cold, hardened fire of a survivor who had lost almost everything. He thought he saw some sign of acknowledgement in the General’s eyes, as though recognising something in him. In return, Kenny thought he saw the same signs of painful loss in Nicholas Kerensky’s eyes, plus some heavy weight that he had no choice but to bear.
Nicholas gave a microscopic, approving nod, then shifted his attention to the woman standing behind Kenny and Elena.
“Miss Nagasawa,” Nicholas said, his voice dropping to a conversational, yet intensely focused tone.
Karen blinked, clearly taken aback, not expecting to be personally called out by probably the most important person in this region of space. “General Kerensky.”
“I am pleased to finally meet you.” Nicholas continued, stepping closer. “You chronicled the disease of tribalism that tore the Pentagon apart, Miss Nagasawa. You saw the rot. The time for observing a dying civilization is over; I need architects to help me build a new one. We will speak soon.”
He then walked off, accompanied by Major Pryde as they headed out of the cargo bay into the innards of the Renown.
Kenny watched as they left, the firestones burning against his palm. The old Star League was truly dead. Whatever came next, he would be ready for it.
The journey to their final destination was slow and agonizingly methodical, as the massive fleet maintained a unified pace. The sprawling, interconnected cargo holds of the Renown became a claustrophobic purgatory.
For Kenny, the weeks blurred into a monotonous cycle of grief and preparation. The military hierarchy was simply too stretched trying to sort itself out, leaving the dependents of the fallen to fend for themselves in the cramped, communal living sectors. Out of necessity, a strange, fractured family unit began to form.
Steven Breen, despite his rank and the demands of the SLDF restructuring, took it upon himself to act as their anchor. The Lieutenant got together with Cecilia and Karen Nagasawa to requisition a small cluster of cots in a maintenance alcove, a sanctuary for themselves and their charges.
Kenny sat cross-legged on his cot, field-stripping a Mauser pulse laser rifle he had bartered from a quartermaster for a week's worth of dessert rations. He moved with practiced, obsessive efficiency, visualizing the internal mechanisms.
Across the small space, Eric groaned, a strangled, wet sound. The older man was curled on his side, his face pale and slick with sweat. He was clutching the stump of his right arm. The medics had fitted him with a prosthetic, a crude, industrial claw, meant as a stopgap measure until they could customise a Type 5 myomer replacement, but the neural interface was misfiring.
“It burns,” Eric hissed through gritted teeth, his eyes squeezed shut. “Gods, it feels like it's on fire.”
Elena sat beside him, her face a blank, emotionless mask. She silently wiped her brother’s forehead with a damp cloth, offering no words of comfort, only a ghost-like presence.
Steven stepped into the alcove, his uniform crisp despite the squalor of the ship. He knelt beside Eric, checking the simple diagnostic indicators on the prosthetic's coupling ring. His jaw tightened.
“The feedback inhibitors are blown,” Steven said, his voice a low, steady rumble. He reached into his utility pouch, pulling out a small toolkit. “I can't fix the nerve syncing, Eric, but I can decouple the sensory return lines. It’ll make the arm clumsy, but it will stop the pain. Do it?”
Eric nodded frantically. “Just make it stop.”
Kenny watched as Steven carefully bypassed the neural limiters, his hands steady and precise. Steven wasn't a doctor, but he was a survivor. When he finished, Eric slumped back against the bulkhead, his breathing ragged but slowing.
“Thanks, Lieutenant,” Eric muttered, the tension finally bleeding out of his pallid face. His eyes fluttered shut, his breathing evening out as exhaustion overtook the pain. Steven watched him for a long moment, wiping a smear of grease from his own forehead, before turning his attention to Kenny.
He watched Kenny as he reassembled the rifle. “When did you learn how to strip that?”
“My mom taught me back when we were all stuck in Castle Brian Epsilon. Got me a few chances to shoot it too,” Kenny replied, sliding the focusing crystal into place with a sharp click. “Said I might need it if the universe didn't get any smarter.”
Steven offered a grim, humorless smile. “She was right. You keep it up, best to be prepared.” He sat down next to Kenny. “Have you thought about what you want to do?” It was the first time Steven had asked him this question.
Kenny answered without hesitation, “I want to enroll in the military and be a mechwarrior like my mom. Elena’s also enrolling, although she’s not saying anything about it yet. She told me back on Arcadia. She wants to be an aerojock.”
Before Steven could reply, Karen Nagasawa ducked through the privacy tarp hanging over the alcove entrance. She looked exhausted, her black hair pulled back into a messy bun, data-slates tucked under both arms. Since Nicholas had drafted her, they rarely saw her. She was spending her days in the heavily secured briefing rooms of the McKenna's Pride, transferring between ships via shuttle, helping the Major General with his daily speeches to keep up the morale of the people following him and to prime them for whatever grand vision he had in mind.
“I’m not surprised Elena wants to fly. I’m thinking of enrolling myself.” She plopped herself down on her own cot, and sighed in relief. Elena, ensconced in a corner, finally looked up, staring at Karen.
Steven raised an eyebrow, and opened his mouth for a moment, before he closed it quickly.
Karen grimaced at him. “I know what you wanted to say. I’m too old to enrol, correct?”
Steven didn’t reply, but his guilty look was enough.
She smirked, “As it happens, they said I have loads of talent and the right reflexes, even at my age. I’ve already secured a provisional slot, and it doesn’t hurt that my application was endorsed by General Kerensky too.”
“Always nice to have connections,” Kenny pointed out. “What about me and El?” He noted that Elena was paying attention to the conversation.
Steven replied, “The two of you are shoo-ins for sure. Just based on your academic and physical scores, you’re already in the top percentile. Next, you’re both legacies, and that never hurts. Finally, if you want it badly enough, I can talk Major Pryde into endorsing your applications. With all that, your admissions should be secured.”
“It had better,” Kenny growled. “I want to be a mechwarrior, and one day, I’ll make those bastards on Arcadia pay!” In his peripheral vision, Kenny saw Elena clench her fists in agreement.
“Careful, kid,” Steven cautioned, “I know you’re mad about losing your mom, but you still have some growing up to do. Rage might make you faster and stronger, but it can also make you sloppy in a fight. Don't just be mad. Be cold. Channel that anger into the simulators. Become the deadliest weapon you can be, and when we go back to Arcadia, they won't stand a chance.”
Kenny nodded. He would bank his rage, use it as fuel. He intended to excel and become a mechwarrior. One day, he would return to Arcadia and avenge his mom, Uncle Dennis, Aunt Lana, and all those who had died.
Alpha Bivouac, Near Strana Prime,
Novy Terra, Strana Mechty
Kerensky Cluster
30th June, 2802
Planetfall on Strana Mechty felt like waking from a long, suffocating nightmare into a bizarre, alien dream.
Strana Mechty boasted a brilliant, sapphire atmosphere. The oceans were vast, clean, and teeming with life, and the continents were blanketed in dense, untamed forests of deep green and silver. But for Kenny, the most profound difference was physical.
The shift in gravity wasn't a sudden shock, since they had already acclimated to much lower gravity during the long, sterile months aboard the Renown. However, the actual feel of it on solid ground was staggering. Arcadia’s 1.5G pull had been a constant, grinding oppressor, compacting Kenny's spine and over-developing his musculature. Now, working in the dirt and scaffolding of the new colony, he felt an impossible lightness. Compared to the native colonists who had arrived with the First Exodus, he and the other Arcadian survivors seemed to possess a terrifying, almost superhuman stamina. Only those who had come from Babylon, with its similarly heavy 1.5Gs, could keep up.
The task of building the new capital, Katyusha City, was a monumental undertaking. The fleet disgorged a million people, and immediate shelter, infrastructure, and agricultural expansion were paramount. The sheer scale of the logistical challenge required everyone to contribute.
Kenny threw himself into the labor. At seventeen, he used his Arcadian-forged strength to haul heavy plasteel beams, assemble pre-fab housing units, and dig foundation trenches. He worked until his hands bled and his muscles screamed, doing everything in his power to exhaust his body so his mind wouldn't have the energy to dream about the mag-lev yards, or the blinding flash of his mother's Lynx vaporizing under the combined fire of numerous enemies.
When he wasn't doing physical labor, he bribed the 131st Division’s quartermaster to get access to the BattleMech simulators, with Aeneas Pryde’s tacit approval. He and eighteen-year-old Elena had been placed in an informal pre-military training cadre, biding their time doing basic drills until a formal academy was established. Kenny ran combat scenarios obsessively, honing his skills in a mech as best as he could.
Elena had ended her self-imposed silence, prompted by the need to communicate with their instructors during their training. She had, as expected, been accepted into pilot training, and was already doing supervised flights in prop-trainers. She had merged her love of flying with her vow of vengeance into the drive to excel in aerospace combat, and Kenny had no doubt she would succeed in that field.
However, the reality of their fractured lives could not be ignored. As the military command began assigning permanent housing, Nicholas Kerensky’s new vision for society started to take shape.
With so many adults fully employed in the construction of Katyusha City and keeping the colony fed, community creches and childcare were more essential than ever. Without any formal education system, the people turned to apprenticeships and fostering as the main modes of passing down technical skills and knowledge. Many young people found themselves parcelled off to various trades and jobs for on-the-job training.
Eric returned to his duties as a tech for the 131st, while Elena and Kenny worked in whatever tasks required manpower when they were not in military training. As they were practically adults, the bureaucracy threatened to scatter them into different labor and military cadres across the expanding settlement, treating them as individual components rather than a family.
Steven Breen, Karen Nagasawa, and Karen’s mother, Cecilia, refused to let that happen. They regarded Eric, Elena, and Kenny as family and would not abandon them so easily to the mercies of the still consolidating system.
Using Steven's status as an active-duty officer and Karen's newfound political clout as one of Nicholas’s advisors, they managed to secure a housing module in the bivouac. They listed Steven and Karen as the household’s leaders, knowing that their status would prevent too many undue questions from being asked.
Fresh from another round of training in the mech simulators, Kenny stood in the doorway of their new home, a squat, utilitarian structure of insulated polymers, and listened to the quiet murmur of voices inside. He leaned against the doorframe just outside, and peeked inside.
“We'll need to stagger our shifts,” Steven was saying, unpacking a duffel bag onto one of the narrow cots. “I'll be running drills at the new base fourteen hours a day. Karen, you're with the General. Eric is back on duty, but Elena and Kenny… their emotions are still too raw. They’re pushing themselves real hard in training.”
“They’re grieving, Steven,” Karen replied softly. She sat at the small communal table, organizing a stack of data-slates, the harsh, sterile light catching the deep circles under her eyes. She had been very busy, joining the discussions of the command group and also taking time to fly. “We all are. But this... us... it's going to look strange to outsiders. A frontline officer and the General's speechwriter pulling strings to play house with three young adults who are supposed to be integrated into the state apparatus.”
“Let them look,” a third voice entered the conversation.
Cecilia Nagasawa stepped out from the small partition that served as a makeshift medical alcove. Her silver-streaked hair was tied back, and she wore a faded medical tunic. Her face carried the indelible sorrow of a woman who had left her husband, Hideo, behind to die in the subterranean dark of Arcadia, but her hands were as steady as they had been the day she delivered Kenny on the Hebei. She always made time for him, Elena, and Eric nowadays, offering a listening ear when they needed one.
“They can look all they want," Cecilia continued, her voice gentle but forged of pure iron. “I watched my husband walk to his death so these children could live. I held Keryn’s hand when she brought Kenny into this universe. I am not letting her son, or Dennis and Lana’s children, get tossed into a bureaucratic grinder to be raised by strangers."
Steven paused, turning to look at the older woman, and then at Karen. The exhaustion on all their faces was stark. There was no romance between Steven and Karen, no stolen glances or lingering touches. They were two traumatized survivors, separated by only a handful of years from the young adults they were trying to protect, bound together by the matriarchal gravity of a grieving widow. It was a pragmatic alliance to honor the dead.
“Your mother is right,” Steven said, his voice hardening with absolute conviction. “Captain Moffat saved our lives during the evac. Without her, our dropships wouldn’t have gotten away. Dennis Masters died holding the line so I could get onto a dropship. I owe them a debt that I can never repay. We hold this family, as patched-up as it is, together. Agreed?”
Karen looked at her mother, a profound respect softening the sharp, political edges she had been forced to develop over the last few months. “Agreed.”
Kenny backed away from the doorway, his hand slipping into his pocket to touch the smooth, unnaturally warm facets of the firestones. He didn't need their protection, he told himself. He was strong enough to fight his own battles now.
He turned around, surprised to see Elena standing right in front of him, her eyes burning with the same anger that fuelled him. She did not say anything, and he did not know if she even heard the conversation inside, but she nodded to him. For what, he wasn’t sure, but the cold void in his chest eased just a fraction.
Kenny knew he couldn't do this alone, and he need not have to do this alone. Unity conferred strength. They would lean on one another and build something stronger than anything that had come before.
Near Katyusha,
5th January, 2803
Major General Nicholas Kerensky did not intend to maintain a bloated, stagnant military. He decreed that his new army would be forged in the crucible of live-fire combat. Only the absolute best would remain on active duty. The rest would be demobilized into the civilian castes.
For the veterans of the 131st, the tests were a brutal shock. They had expected to be grandfathered in based on their combat records on Arcadia. Nicholas demanded they prove themselves all over again, and they obeyed.
Kenny stood on the high observation deck of the testing grounds, looking through the reinforced plastisteel at the desolate valley of crushed rock and scrub brush below. Karen stood beside him, holding a datapad, officially present to document the trials for Nicholas's records, while unofficially ensuring Kenny got a front-row seat to the future.
The rules of the trial were uncompromising: a lone warrior was to face three opponents simultaneously. Defeating one or at least a good showing in defeat secured a place in the new military. Defeating two enemies conferred respect and some freedom to choose assignments. Defeating all three was considered an act of near-mythological prowess.
Down in the valley, Lieutenant Steven Breen's battlemech stepped into the staging circle. He had been forced to abandon his beloved Griffin during the apocalyptic retreat from Arcadia. Today, he piloted a seventy-ton Guillotine, an unofficial 'Royal' variant upgraded with the latest technology. It was also far superior to his Griffin.
"Candidate Breen," the emotionless voice of the range control officer echoed through the observation deck speakers. "Your trial begins now. Engage."
Kenny leaned forward, his heart pounding in a familiar, adrenaline-fueled rhythm. From the far end of the valley, three mechs crested the ridge at once - a Shadow Hawk, a Hermes, and a Thunderbolt. They did not wait for formal dueling etiquette. They attacked simultaneously, hunting as a coordinated pack.
Steven didn't hesitate. The 1.1G gravity of Strana Mechty felt like a blessing to the Arcadian veteran. His Guillotine moved with a terrifying, fluid grace that the opposing pilots, accustomed to standard Terran gravity, clearly didn't anticipate.
Kenny watched, his mind racing through the tactical permutations. He can't face all three in the open. He has to break their firing lines, focus on one target at a time.
As if obeying Kenny's thoughts, Steven triggered his jump jets, launching his heavy machine into a high, banking arc to use a rocky outcropping to block the Thunderbolt's line of sight. The Shadow Hawk tracked him, firing its autocannon, but Steven was already pivoting mid-air. He fired his ER PPC, and the harsh lightning bolt struck the Shadow Hawk in the right shoulder. He then disengaged, pulling back his Guillotine and drawing his faster opponents in.
The Hermes and Shadow Hawk obliged; both mechs rushed into the copse of woods Steven had staked out. The Hermes stepped in close against the Guillotine, and they exchanged vicious alpha strikes. The Hermes' medium lasers struck the Guillotine all over, but it weathered the laser storm stoically. The Guillotine's return fire savaged the Hermes, the particle cannon and some of the pulse lasers carving into the Hermes' right torso, followed up by a volley of streak SRMs that burrowed into the vulnerable innards of the light mech. The Hermes crashed to the ground.
"Target one down," the control officer announced.
The Shadow Hawk jumped in, weapons blazing and tearing chunks of armor off the Guillotine. Steven kept his cool, and shifted his mech yet again, staying clear of the Thunderbolt and to avoid putting himself on the wrong end of two-to-one odds.
They duelled for almost a minute, both mechs giving as good as they got. However, the Guillotine's heavier firepower eventually won, and the Shadow Hawk crouched down and signalled surrender, sparing the mech further damage. Kenny could only imagine the repair costs of all these live-fire tests - they must be astronomical.
"Target two disabled."
But there was no time to breathe. The Thunderbolt closed the pincer. Steven fought with a cold, unblinking focus, dancing the Guillotine backward to try to pick the Thunderbolt apart at range. But the Thunderbolt was completely fresh and its long range weapons envelope was superior to the Guillotine's, while Steven's Guillotine was already badly damaged.
A heavy salvo of missiles punched into the Guillotine, and it finally fell over, probably with gyro and engine damage. Steven powered down his weapons to signal his submission before the reactor breached.
"Test complete," the control officer said, a hint of genuine respect bleeding into the sterile voice. "Two kills confirmed."
Kenny exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
Across the valley, Major Aeneas Pryde marched his customized Quickdraw onto the field for the next trial. Aeneas moved with a predatory, calculating aggression that left the observers speechless. Facing his own three-on-one scenario, he fought frantically to isolate his targets. When a Rifleman tried to engage from a distance, Aeneas used the Quickdraw's superior mobility to close the gap, physically slamming his heavy machine into the fire-support mech, crushing its autocannon barrels with armored fists before lighting up a Centurion with his array of medium lasers and SRMs. Like Breen, Pryde ultimately succumbed to the sheer volume of fire from the third opponent, but only after securing two decisive victories.
"They're incredible," Karen whispered beside Kenny, her eyes wide as she recorded the data. "They fight like they aren't even human anymore."
Kenny pressed his hand against his pocket, feeling the steady, rhythmic pulse of the firestones. He didn't see inhumanity. He saw perfection. He saw the absolute, uncompromising pursuit of martial supremacy, born from the ashes of Arcadia. The old ways had not worked. This new way was the answer.
"They're Warriors," Kenny said, his voice hard, his azure eyes reflecting the smoke of the proving grounds. He pressed his hand against the plastisteel, making a silent, unbreakable vow. "And I'm going to join them."