Otwin was still looking at the armor when something felt wrong.

  Not wrong in the sense of danger. Wrong in the way experience sometimes tugged at the back of his mind, a quiet insistence that a detail did not belong where it sat.

  He counted the suits again.

  One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

  And one that did not fit the pattern at all.

  It stood at the end of the rack, its proportions subtly off. Broader shoulders. Longer limbs. Reinforced joints where the others had lighter articulation. The plating was thicker in places, and the frame stretched to accommodate mass that most men simply did not have.

  Otwin stared at it for a long moment.

  Then he turned slowly toward Grump.

  “You didn’t,” he said.

  Grump’s mouth twitched. “I did.”

  Otwin frowned. “Really?”

  Grump opened his mouth to answer, but never got the chance.

  The door behind them slammed open.

  “SERGEANT HAGERMANN!”

  The voice hit the room like artillery fire.

  Otwin had just enough time to brace before a massive shape barreled toward him. Hands the size of shovel heads clamped onto his shoulders, and then he was lifted clean off the deck.

  “I’m glad to see you!” the enormous man bellowed, crushing Otwin into a rib-breaking bear hug.

  Otwin’s boots kicked uselessly for a second. “Humbert,” he managed to squeeze out.

  Humbert Humbertson of the Northern Tribes laughed, a booming sound that seemed to rattle the bulkheads. He was even bigger than Otwin remembered. Seven feet tall if he was an inch, shoulders like a wall, arms corded with muscle earned the old way. A massive beard framed his face now, thick and wild, shot through with grey that matched the hair at his temples.

  Father Time had not spared him.

  It had simply failed to slow him much.

  Humbert finally set Otwin back on his feet and stepped back, grinning broadly. “You got smaller.”

  Otwin coughed and straightened his jacket. “You got louder.”

  “Still breathing though,” Humbert said, clapping him on the back hard enough to stagger him. “That’s what counts.”

  Three more figures entered behind him, far less dramatic but no less familiar.

  Jordy Lafferty came in first, already smiling. The same easy grin, the same relaxed posture that had fooled more than one person into thinking he wasn’t dangerous. He stepped up and bumped fists with Otwin without a word.

  “Didn’t think you’d ever crawl out of the plains,” Jordy said.

  “Didn’t think you’d ever leave the Army,” Otwin replied.

  Doke Nokish followed, quieter. His head tilted slightly as he looked at Otwin, his right eye catching the light. The sapphire lens set into the socket gleamed faintly, artificial and unmistakable. Otwin knew exactly what it could do. Doke could spot movement at distances most people could barely see shapes.

  “Still alive,” Doke said.

  “So are you,” Otwin replied. “I see they never fixed that eye.”

  Doke smiled thinly. “Why would I let them?”

  Last through the door was Paul Ogman.

  Small Paul.

  He looked much the same as Otwin remembered. Undersized. Narrow shoulders. Bookish face framed by thinning hair. But his eyes were sharp, and he carried himself with quiet confidence. The kind of man who survived by thinking three steps ahead while bigger people argued.

  “Sergeant,” Paul said, offering a hand.

  Otwin took it. “You’re still terrible at growing.”

  “And you’re still terrible at leaving,” Paul replied.

  Otwin looked at them all, standing together in the security compartment of a civilian Steam Fort on the edge of an Imperial city. Five stormtrooper suits waited silently on their racks. One of them sized for a giant.

  “The whole squad,” Otwin said.

  “What’s left of it,” Grump said from behind him.

  Silence settled for a moment, heavy but not bitter. They had all seen enough to know how many names were missing.

  Otwin exhaled slowly and turned to Grump.

  “Major,” he said, using the old rank without thinking, “I guess we should discuss compensation.”

  Grump raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

  “I’m not going to let you get all my boys killed.”

  Grump grinned.

  “Good,” he said. “Because that would’ve been bad for business.”

  Otwin looked back at his squad, older now, scarred in different ways, but still standing. Still willing to take the road.

  For the first time since the offer had been made, the idea of the Cocoa Road did not feel like madness.

  It felt like work.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  ***

  Otwin and Grump came down from the tower together.

  The office at the top of the Five Seven had been cramped, cluttered with maps, route projections, cargo manifests, and old military habits neither of them had ever quite shaken. The discussion had been direct. Numbers exchanged. Expectations stated plainly. No grand speeches. No false reassurances. Just terms, risks, and what failure would cost.

  Now they stepped back into the Fort proper, the steady hum of machinery wrapping around them again.

  Otwin did not slow.

  He headed straight for the security compartment.

  The others were already there, standing near the armor racks, talking quietly among themselves. Humbert leaned against the bulkhead with his arms folded, the deck plates creaking faintly beneath his weight. Jordy sat on a crate, boots planted wide, polishing a piece of gear that was already clean. Doke stood apart, hands clasped behind his back, sapphire eye tracking Otwin the moment he entered. Paul hovered near a console, reading something only half-related to what was on the screen.

  Otwin stopped in front of them.

  “Alright,” he said. “I took the job.”

  Four sets of eyes sharpened.

  “And yes,” Otwin added, “I’m getting paid stupid money.”

  Grins broke out immediately.

  Humbert slapped his massive hands together, the sound echoing through the compartment. “Ha! I knew it.”

  Otwin allowed himself a thin smile. “Get your suits on, boys. Because we got a mission.”

  Grump followed him a moment later, hands clasped behind his back, watching the scene with open satisfaction. “I took the liberty of having your STVs brought in,” he said. “Yours too, Otwin. And thanks for selling me those last two. They’ll work great.”

  Otwin shot him a look.

  Grump’s smile widened just enough to be irritating.

  Otwin sighed. He knew that look. He had walked straight into it. “You’re lucky I like you,” he muttered.

  “I’m counting on it,” Grump replied.

  Otwin turned away and moved toward the armor racks.

  His suit stood in the center.

  It was the best-maintained of the five. Cleaner joins. Less patchwork. Plates that lined up the way they were meant to. Still Iron-rated, still surplus, but cared for by someone who understood what neglect did to men who depended on equipment.

  Otwin reached for the clasps of his jacket.

  Halfway through shrugging it off, he remembered the DAC.

  Too late.

  “Sergeant,” Doke said, head tilting slightly. His gaze fixed on Otwin’s back, on the subtle outline beneath the fabric. “What’s that?”

  Otwin paused, then finished pulling the jacket free and folded it over a crate.

  “It’s just Otwin now, Doke,” he said evenly. “And that is a spinal stabilizer. I got… hurt.”

  He met Doke’s eyes without flinching. “Don’t worry. It’ll be fine in the suit.”

  Doke studied him for a long moment. Then he nodded.

  Grump glanced over as well, curiosity flickering briefly. “Looks like a nice piece of magi-tech,” he said.

  “Sometimes,” Otwin replied, “I found good stuff when I needed it.”

  No one pushed further.

  Otwin exhaled slowly. They had bought it.

  The team began suiting up.

  The Stormtrooper armor was designed to go on fast, even under stress. Plates opened and settled into place with guided movement, magic assisting muscle. Leg assemblies locked in first, weight distributing itself properly the moment they sealed. Chest plates followed, the armor adjusting automatically to posture and balance.

  Even Iron-rated, it was impressive.

  Otwin stepped into his greaves and felt the familiar shift as the armor took some of the load. Not strength, not like the Steam Knights, but support. Endurance. Less strain on joints that had earned their complaints.

  As he seated the chest piece and felt it click into place, text scrolled across his HUD.

  Integrating with Stormtrooper armor.

  Otwin blinked once.

  Integration successful.

  The suit’s internal indicators flickered, then stabilized.

  Upgrading Magiwear.

  Otwin’s breath hitched slightly.

  Improving efficiency. Changing power routing.

  The armor settled differently against his frame. Subtle. Almost imperceptible.

  Complete.

  Armor rating improved. Iron to Bronze.

  Otwin did not react outwardly.

  He finished locking his arms into place, the gauntlets sealing with a soft hiss. He flexed his fingers once. The response was smooth. Clean. Better than it had been a moment ago.

  Around him, the others finished their preparations.

  Humbert’s oversized suit took longer, plates sliding and locking into reinforced channels. When it sealed fully, he rolled his shoulders and laughed. “Feels good,” he said. “Like old times.”

  Jordy snapped his helmet into place and gave Otwin a thumbs-up. Paul adjusted his suit more carefully, checking seals twice before nodding to himself. Doke stood last, helmet tucked under one arm, sapphire eye gleaming as he watched the others.

  Otwin looked at them.

  Five suits. Five people.

  No extras.

  He straightened unconsciously, the armor responding to the change in posture.

  “Alright,” he said. “We’ll do a full systems check, then I want familiarization drills. I don’t care how long you’ve worn this stuff before. This Fort, this route, this team, it’s all new.”

  Humbert grinned inside his helmet. “Yes, Sergeant.”

  Otwin shook his head. “Otwin.”

  Jordy laughed. “We’ll see.”

  Otwin allowed himself the smallest smile.

  Somewhere along his spine, the DAC remained silent.

  But it was listening.

  ***

  They had been Stormtroopers.

  Not the kind sung about in parade marches or painted into murals for recruitment halls. They were one of the many numbered units that did the real work of the Imperial Army. The Chiliad Five Seven.

  A platoon, once.

  Major Chadwick Grumplestein had commanded them. Grump, even then, though never to his face. Otwin Hagermann had been the platoon sergeant, the man who turned intent into movement and orders into survival.

  Humbert Humbertson had carried the heavy weapons. When something needed to be broken, breached, or simply removed from existence, Humbert did it with a grin and enough firepower to make the problem regret being born.

  Paul Ogman had been their translator and analyst. Languages, dialects, cultural nuance. He could read a room faster than most men could read a map.

  Doke Nokish had been assigned as the section marksman. His magically enhanced right eye, that sapphire lens, let him see farther and clearer than any scope ever issued.

  And then there was Jordy Lafferty.

  Jordy was good at tactical acquisitions. Which was the polite way the Army described someone who could obtain whatever was needed, whether it had technically been issued or not.

  There had been others.

  Some were killed. Some transferred. Some vanished into postings so deep or distant they might as well have been dead. War had a way of scattering people until only fragments remained.

  These five were what was left.

  They had fought in seven major engagements of the Third Empire–Hegemony War. They had taken down Steam Forts together, learned how to bleed machines as well as men. They had been part of the Forlorn Hope that crashed into the city of Urr, where survival had been less about victory and more about stubborn refusal to die.

  Otwin pushed the memory aside as the last of the checks finished.

  Armor sealed. Weapons powered. Comms green.

  They exited the Five Seven together.

  Outside, the yard was already in motion. Grump was climbing into a large steam carriage, its armored hull reinforced with iron bands and rune plates. A driver took the front seat, hands settling onto polished controls. Above them, a gunner mounted the swivel turret, resting an energy rifle into its cradle and testing the traverse.

  This was not subtle transport.

  It did not need to be.

  Otwin stepped into position as the rest of the squad fanned out instinctively, spacing themselves without orders. Old habits surfaced easily.

  “Alright, boys,” Otwin said.

  He slapped his helmet into place.

  The world shifted.

  DAC integrated instantly, the HUD overlay snapping into alignment with the Stormtrooper optics. Rangefinding data bloomed softly at the edges of his vision. Threat vectors ghosted in and out as the system calibrated.

  Then a new channel opened.

  Squad communications link established.

  Otwin felt it settle, seamless and quiet.

  “The mission,” he said, his voice carried cleanly through the squad net, “is to escort Grump’s carriage to the Bank. Then escort him back.”

  A pause.

  “What’s the payload, boss?” Jordy asked. Magi-static crackled faintly through the well-used communicator.

  Otwin smiled behind his helmet. “He’ll be pickin’ up some Nunya, Jordy.”

  Another pause.

  “Nunya, boss?”

  “Yeah,” Otwin said. “Nunya bidness.”

  There was a heartbeat of silence.

  Then Humbert laughed.

  The sound boomed across the squad channel, too loud, too enthusiastic, rattling helmets and making everyone wince at once.

  “Damn it, Humbert,” Jordy muttered.

  Otwin shook his head, a familiar feeling settling into his chest.

  Same squad.

  Different road.

  The steam carriage lurched forward, pistons churning, and the Chiliad Five Seven fell into motion around it without needing to be told.

  For the first time since the war, Otwin felt the shape of a mission close around him.

  It fit.