Tychus tightened his thin shirt around himself and stepped into the shadowy dispatch hall at Fort Howe. The temperature inside was at least a bit higher, but for someone used to the dry, sweltering heat of Raydin III, it was still freezing. The 'cute' layer of fat around his gut didn't offer him any warmth.
After being incarcerated, all of Tychus's personal items and equipment had been confiscated. Now he wore only a shirt, a thin black nylon jacket, and carried nothing but a few pairs of underwear and a sonic razor tucked inside his duffel bag.
To proceed, Tychus had to pass the long line of thirty or forty soldiers ahead of him and reach the service desk, where a uniformed staff sergeant waited. Only then could he receive his new uniform and gear—and report for duty to his new commanding officer.
Tychus strolled right past the line, ignoring the surprised looks from those waiting, pressing his belly up against the mahogany counter. Then, with practiced ease, he used his massive backside to nudge aside the soldier already speaking with the dispatch sergeant.
He leaned his elbows on the polished counter and pulled an ID card with biometric identification out of his trouser pocket.
"Sergeant, Old Tychus has some important business to take care of. I think you could make an exception this time," he said, sliding the card across the counter—along with a not-so-fine cigar, discreetly offered.
The soldier he had pushed aside didn't dare say anything, though he clearly wanted to. Compared to his thin frame, Tychus was a giant—easily nearly two meters tall. His bulk was intimidating too: thick muscles covered with a generous layer of fat. When he walked, he moved like a lumbering but steady gray bear.
Tychus's dark brown hair was cropped into a crew cut. Deep-set wrinkles lined his rugged features, and when he furrowed his thick brows or got angry, those wrinkles expanded, making him look even more fearsome.
"Private, cutting in line isn't exactly the behavior of a model Federal citizen. And as a proud member of the Federal Marine Corps, you ought to follow Regulation 43 of the Marine Conduct Code."
The staff sergeant, a young man with brown hair and eyes, had a long, dark scar running down the back of his neck—more precisely, just beneath his left ear.
"What's the matter? You're not my damn mother."
Tychus still didn't realize the man in front of him was a resocialized soldier—he barely knew anything about them.
"Instead of wasting time yapping, how about you stick that little pink card where it belongs already?"
Seeing that the sergeant hadn't taken the cigar, Tychus assumed it was because the guy looked down on the cheap brand he'd smuggled out of prison—but hey, that just meant he wouldn't have to waste a stick on him after all.
"Yes, you're right."
To Tychus's surprise, the sergeant actually agreed with his crude and belligerent logic.
"I shouldn't make those still waiting in line wait any longer. And no, I'm not your mother—nor am I responsible for your upbringing."
The second half of the sergeant's statement was delivered calmly and seriously, but it still made Tychus feel insulted. He forced the anger down, unwilling to risk another trip to prison. Instead, he decided to memorize the sergeant's face—and get back at him later, maybe while he was taking a shower in the communal bath.
"Private Second Class Tychus Findlay, per orders, you're assigned to First Squad, Third Platoon, Garrison Company. Your squad leader is… hmm, Sergeant Augustus Mengsk," the sergeant said while tapping the keyboard.
"Sounds like a solid name. Let's hope he's not a bonehead," Tychus muttered with a crooked grin.
"So, Sergeant, where do I pick up my fluffy blanket, pillow, socks, and a leather coat that'll keep me from freezing to death?"
The sergeant frowned, seemingly thrown off by the off-script question. But after scanning the screen, his expression relaxed.
"You're right. You should be issued cold-weather gear. I sincerely apologize for the oversight."
"...Huh."
For once, Tychus was at a loss. He'd never seen a sergeant apologize sincerely to a private. Back on Raydin III, where bureaucracy ran rampant and corporal punishment was the norm, this usually meant trouble was coming.
Are all the people on Turaxis this polite?
If so, doesn't that make old Tychus look like a total barbarian?
"Go to Supply Depot No. 7 and give this to the duty officer. He'll hand over what you need."
As he returned Tychus's ID card, the sergeant handed him a small chip.
"Sounds decent."
Tychus took the ID card and the chip, turned, and boarded a bus that drove deep into Fort Howe. Eventually, it stopped in front of a low, flat building.
Supply Depot No. 7 had a gleaming, silver-gray metal exterior. Two massive turbine fans were mounted on the shining metal wall, and a metal pipe extended down into the ground, humming loudly.
The front door was unguarded. Tychus swaggered in, already wondering if there might be a chance to 'borrow' a few extra supplies—purely to help out those poor, underdressed young ladies in need, of course.
The depot was spacious—a massive warehouse made up of towering rows of shelves, stacked with cardboard boxes and locked cases. Around seven or eight young soldiers in brown uniforms were busy unloading goods, taking inventory, and hauling supplies up or down the shelves using ladders.
At the only service counter sat a sharp-looking soldier with short black hair. His uniform was spotless, though his expression occasionally seemed touched by melancholy. The nameplate read: James Raynor.
"Good morning. What can I do for you?"
Acting logistics sergeant Raynor spoke politely.
"You think I look like I'm doing great, kid?" Tychus handed his ID card and chip to Raynor. "I lost my gear on the way here, and they told me to come pick up a new set."
Raynor took the chip and slid it into the scanner slot. Only after giving a quick glance at Tychus's deeply wrinkled face did he turn to the screen. "As per protocol, you're entitled to a new allocation."
"Because the latest shipment of supply crates is still stacked in the storage units, we're in the process of inventorying and sorting everything. It's going to take some time. Please return to this counter at 14:00, at which point—"
"You sure you're not screwing with me?" Tychus raised an eyebrow and cut him off. "I just trekked across a death-scorched desert on Raydin III to this godforsaken iceball, and all I've got on me is a pair of underwear."
"In fact, the indoor temperature here has been consistently maintained at around 20 degrees Celsius," Raynor replied, pulling the chip out and placing it back on the counter.
"Listen up. Maybe you didn't catch the meaning of those words, or maybe I was too polite, and it's gone to your little blond head." Tychus planted one hand firmly on the counter, leaned forward, and with the other grabbed Raynor by the collar, yanking his face close and locking eyes with his dark brown ones.
It was a move Tychus had used countless times with great success. Big and imposing, with a face that could scare a devil straight, he usually only needed to stare down a green recruit to make them piss themselves. And it didn't take long for Tychus to see that Raynor hadn't been in service for more than two years.
Maybe that private first class insignia gave him a bit of clout, but with that skinny frame, Raynor was nowhere near a match for a hardened vet like Tychus.
"So maybe you and your little lackeys should get off your asses and fetch my gear, pronto. I don't have time to stand here gawking at shelves."
"I'm sorry, I don't quite understand what you're saying," Raynor replied calmly. "Because I can't tell if that crap coming out of your mouth is actually shit."
Tychus blinked. He clearly hadn't expected Raynor to talk back without an ounce of fear.
"If I haven't made myself clear enough..." Tychus couldn't let it go now. Grabbing Raynor's collar with both hands, he yanked him clean off his chair, ready to teach this rookie a lesson. "Fetch my gear. Now. Or I'll smash every bone in your body and screw your head off to use as a piss pot!"
"Not before I rip that thing off your neck and kick it around like a ball," Raynor shot back, his voice cold. He'd never backed down in his life. Gripping Tychus's wrist, he slowly but firmly pried the big man's hand off his collar—with a strength that genuinely surprised him.
Tychus realized there was no getting around a fight today. That was fine. He usually kept it clean. He'd make Raynor feel humiliated and wish he were dead—but the medics wouldn't find a single bruise too big, let alone anything that could get him court-martialed.
"Today, you're gonna regret ever pissing off Tychus Findlay," he growled. "I'll snap every one of your finger bones and glue them back together."
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