The ceiling leaked.
Not much—just a slow, stubborn drip that fell from the cracked corner tile like a tired heartbeat. It tapped against the metal floor every few seconds, soft and patient, refusing to be ignored. Jace had told himself for months he'd fix it.
He never did.
The sound mixed with the steady hum of the medical unit beside his mother's bed. The machine was old—older than the apartment, maybe older than him. The casing was scratched white plastic, stained yellow around the edges. The screen flickered faint green, numbers rising and falling in tired rhythm. Every so often it clicked, like it was arguing with itself about whether to keep going.
Jace sat on the edge of the mattress and pretended not to notice either noise.
Outside the narrow apartment window, VEXEN-9 stretched on forever—towers of rusted metal and smoking refineries, cargo haulers drifting through smog-choked skies like slow metal birds. The whole colony smelled of oil and hot engines. Even the sunlight looked dirty here.
"Eat," his mother said.
Her voice was soft. Too soft.
"I'm not hungry."
"You never are lately."
He forced a smile he didn't feel. "Big day. Nerves."
She reached out and rested her hand over his wrist. Her fingers felt lighter than he remembered. Thin. Careful.
"Jace."
"I know."
"You don't have to do this."
"Yes," he said quietly, "I do."
The machine beside her bed beeped, as if trying to join the argument.
The apartment was small—two rooms and a bathroom that sometimes worked if you begged it. The walls were bare metal panels, dented in places from years of careless moves and rough living. A cracked holo-frame on the dresser showed an old picture of him and his mother from better days—both smiling, both healthy, both pretending life would stay kind.
On the little table between them lay the recruitment papers.
United Systems Defense Coalition – Military Enrollment
Four years of service.
Guaranteed pay.
Guaranteed medical coverage for immediate family.
That last line was the only one that mattered.
"That contract doesn't promise you safety," his mother said, glancing at the glowing text. "It promises them your life."
"It promises you treatment," Jace replied.
She sighed, leaning back against her pillow. "There are other ways."
"Name one."
Silence.
Exactly.
Jace rubbed his hands together, feeling the roughness of old calluses. Years of lifting scrap, loading crates, doing whatever work VEXEN-9 would give a kid with no degree and no connections.
None of it paid enough.
Not for real doctors.
Not for real medicine.
"I'll be fine," he said. "Basic contract. Four years. Logistics if I test high enough. Easy."
She gave him a tired look.
"You've never once done anything the easy way."
That pulled a small laugh out of him.
"Fair."
He remembered the day the clinic finally stopped pretending.
The careful voices.
The rehearsed sympathy.
The way the doctor avoided his eyes.
"Without advanced treatment, we recommend preparing for end-of-life care."
Jace hated that sentence.
Hated how calm it sounded.
Hated how expensive hope was.
"Promise me something," his mother said.
"Anything."
"Come back."
Jace swallowed.
"I promise."
The recruitment center was louder than the apartment, but somehow felt emptier.
Rows of tired faces stood in long lines beneath bright, sterile lights. Holographic banners hovered overhead, playing endless loops of shining starships and smiling soldiers. Words like HONOR, DUTY, and SERVICE floated in patriotic blue.
Jace knew better than to believe any of it.
The floor was polished so clean it felt artificial. Everything here did. Too neat. Too organized. Too hopeful.
A clerk behind a transparent screen motioned him forward.
"Name."
"Jace Calder."
"Age."
"Eighteen."
"Occupation."
"Dock labor. Freelance."
The clerk didn't look up.
"Any criminal history?"
"No."
"Any known medical conditions?"
Jace hesitated.
"…No."
A small scanner slid out from the desk.
"Place your wrist here."
Cold metal pressed against his skin. A faint blue light washed over him. He felt nothing. No pain. No tingling. Just a quiet hum.
Somewhere behind the counter, a monitor beeped.
The clerk paused.
Looked at the screen.
Then looked again.
He leaned slightly to his right and whispered something to another medic at the station beside him.
Jace watched their faces carefully.
No alarms.
No flashing lights.
No urgent calls.
Just… hesitation.
"Is something wrong?" Jace asked.
The clerk turned back to him, forcing a professional smile.
"Not at all. You're cleared."
But Jace noticed the way the man's eyes flicked back to the monitor one last time before moving on.
He didn't see the small notation quietly added to his file.
He didn't see the internal code attached to his name.
All he saw was another line to stand in.
"Proceed to Assignment Desk B," the clerk said, handing him a thin data card.
More lines. More signatures. More waiting.
Finally, a tired-looking officer slid a fresh identification badge across the counter.
"Unit assignment," she said flatly. "Platoon 77."
"Platoon 77?" Jace repeated.
"That's correct."
He glanced around. Most of the other recruits were being placed into units with familiar names—engineering divisions, logistics teams, medical wings.
Seventy-seven didn't sound like any of them.
"Is that a special unit or something?" he asked.
The officer paused just long enough for him to notice.
"Something like that," she replied.
No explanation.
Just a number.
That evening he stood with dozens of other recruits on a massive transport shuttle, staring out through reinforced glass as VEXEN-9 shrank beneath him.
His mother waved from the terminal window, small and brave and smiling even though he knew she was terrified.
He waved back until the doors closed.
Until the engines roared.
Until the stars swallowed everything.
Halfway to orbit, his wrist console buzzed.
A message from VEXEN-9 Medical Services.
He opened it.
The words were painfully simple.
"We regret to inform you…"
Jace read the message once.
Then again.
The cabin suddenly felt very small.
Around him recruits laughed and talked about their future assignments—about adventure, about paychecks, about new lives.
Jace turned the screen off.
And stared out at the endless black.
Platoon 77.
Just another number.
That was all it felt like.
For now.