Inside the main administrative tent, the air was thick with the scent of old paper, stale sweat, and cheap tobacco. Captain Javier leaned over a mountain of files, his eyes bloodshot from a grueling morning of processing a regional influx of volunteers. As the man responsible for managing the enlistment for the entire state, he was used to the logistical puzzle of fitting men into their chosen branches, treating the massive human tide like a series of numbers to be balanced.
Normally, the system was simple: if a recruit was healthy and wanted the Navy, he got the Navy. But Javier knew that in times of mobilization, the military wasn't a buffet; it was a cold, efficient machine that put the pipes wherever the pressure was highest—usually the meat-grinder of the frontlines or newly activated divisions that had yet to be bled white.
Lieutenant Jonah entered the tent, his face grim and a smudge of ink on his cheek. "Captain, a courier just arrived from the field. A letter from Major Stanley of the 98th Airborne."
Javier didn't look up at first, his pen scratching against a requisition form. "98th Airborne? Stanley's usually too busy jumping out of things to bother with paperwork."
He took the envelope, but his hands froze when he saw the seal at the bottom. It wasn't the standard divisional stamp. It was a triple-headed eagle over a blackened shield—the seal of the High Command, a mark that carried the weight of the Republic's ultimate authority.
Javier broke the wax with a sharp crack and read the contents. His eyes widened slightly, the pupils dilating as he processed the implications. He let out a slow, measured breath. "Jonah, stop the current processing. Every file that came in from three days ago until now is to be flagged. Transfer them all to the Airborne. Effective immediately, voluntary branch choice is suspended."
Jonah blinked, stunned into a rare moment of silence. "Sir? You mean every civilian who signed up? Regardless of their preference? That's thousands of transfers. The Navy will have our heads, and the Tank Corps commanders are already screaming for fresh crews. We'll have a riot on our hands."
"The Navy will have to wait," Javier interrupted, his voice hardening into the steel tone of a veteran officer. "This is a direct directive from the High Command. All civilian recruits are to be funneled into the 98th, 99th, 100th, and 101st Airborne Divisions. Twelve other states are receiving this same order as we speak. We don't know how long the window is open, but we need to fill these gallons until they overflow. The Republic is sharpening its spear, Jonah."
Jonah hesitated, his gaze drifting to the stacks of "Exemplary" files. "What about the exemplaries, sir? The ones with high scores, specialized training, and officer potential? Surely we aren't wasting them in the jump seats?"
"Everyone," Javier said, leaning back in his chair until the wood creaked. A small, chilling smile touched his lips, one born of grim realization. "There are no exceptions. If the High Command wants a spearhead, we give them a spearhead. It has finally begun. The games are over."
Outside, the atmosphere in the recruitment clearing shifted instantly, as if a cold front had blown in. Soldiers began moving with a new, frantic purpose from tent to tent, pulling down the colorful ballots for the Rangers, the Tank Corps, the Airforce, and the Navy. In their place, a single, recurring sign was hammered into the posts with rhythmic, violent thuds: AIRBORNE.
The civilians filling out their forms stopped, pens hovering over parchment. A murmur of confusion, then sharp anxiety, rippled through the crowd like a wave. The Airborne was a "high-risk" designation—everyone knew the stories. They were the boys who fell from the clouds into the dark, the ones who were the first to die and the last to be reinforced. It was a branch for the brave, the desperate, or the suicidal.
However, the murmurs changed when a new announcement blared over the loudspeakers, crackling with static: "All recruits assigned to Airborne Divisions will receive double the standard combat pay and immediate hazard bonuses. Sign now for the elite, serve the Republic at the highest level."
The promise of coin brought the pens back to the paper for many, the allure of gold momentarily dulling the edge of fear. But for others, the terror of the sky was still greater than the weight of a heavy purse.
Jack returned to his group, his face a mask of disbelief. "Hey guys, they just changed the slots. It's Airborne only. Everything else is locked down tight."
James Bennet didn't seem bothered; if anything, his posture straightened, his eyes reflecting a predatory energy. "I was going there anyway. If this means we all end up in the same outfit, then that's the best luck we've had all year. I'd rather have you lot beside me in a transport than a bunch of strangers."
"Yeah," another boy added, shifting his weight. "I don't mind. If we're going to fight, we might as well do it together. Strength in numbers, right?"
But the boys who had their hearts set on the Navy looked like they'd been slapped, their dreams of the high seas evaporating into the dry city air. Kenlil stared at the empty space where the Navy banner used to be, his ears twitching with agitation. "Why? I spent all morning thinking about those dreadnoughts and the open water. I don't want to be in the Airborne. I'm a forest elf, Tav. We like trees. We like the ground. I can handle the sea, but I don't like the idea of falling at terminal velocity about as much as I like a kick in the teeth with a flak on my face."
"There's nothing we can do about it, Ken," Philip said calmly, though his eyes remained sharp and analytical, watching the way the guards moved. "The wind is blowing in one direction today. We either fly with it or get buried under it."
Tavros shrugged his massive, beastfolk shoulders, his thick neck muscles corded. "I don't really mind. Jumping out of an airship sounds like a hell of a way to see the country. Faster than walking, at least."
Luke let out a long, defeated sigh, his shoulders slumped. "I guess the gods decided I'm not meant to see a battleship in this lifetime. My luck. I just hope I don't disappoint my dad; he was Airborne, too. He always said the jump was the easy part—it was the landing in enemy territory that broke you."
"Come on, cheer up," James said, clapping Luke on the back with enough force to make him stumble. "Airborne isn't all that bad, plus the pay is good. We'll be the richest corpses in the dirt, or the wealthiest heroes in Marmello."
Kenlil narrowed his eyes, his suspicion cutting through the bravado. "Didn't that Major have something to do with this? He said he'd see us soon. He knew the funnel was coming. We walked right into his trap."
Jack looked toward the horizon, thinking of Major Stanley's wide, predatory smile and the way he'd offered that "free ride." "Maybe. Or maybe he just knew which way the war was turning and wanted to make sure he had a few familiar faces in his jump manifest. Anyways, I'm going in first before they change their minds and put us in the mines."
Jack stepped into the recruitment tent, followed immediately by James and Philip, who moved with a grace that suggested he was already accustomed to high places. Tavros looked at Kenlil, who was still digging his heels into the dirt, staring longingly at the road back home.
"I know you want to come with us," Tavros said, his voice a low, rumbling bass. "You're just scared of the drop. You need to be forcefully convinced."
Before Kenlil could protest or dart away, Tavros reached out with a hand the size of a dinner plate, grabbed the back of the elf's collar, and hoisted him clean off the ground, marching him toward the tent entrance like a misbehaving pup.
"Let me go, you dolt! This is kidnapping! I'll report you to the military police!" Kenlil shouted, though his legs kicked in the air with a struggle that was clearly half-hearted.
"You're welcome," Tavros replied, his expression stoic.
Luke sighed, exchanged a final, nervous glance with Oscar and Daniel, and followed them in. One of the remaining Navy hopefuls looked at the "Airborne" sign, spit a glob of phlegm onto the ground, and muttered, "Ah, fuck it. Might as well be a bird if I can't be a fish. At least the view is better."