There was a giant in the cave, silent and alone.

The strongest light came from the fizzling, bubbling spit of a welding torch. The only other sound was the droning hiss of a waterfall, somewhere distant.

The man's face was hidden behind the welding mask, inscrutable as he set about the task at hand. The giant dwarfed him, suspended in the centre of the chamber by a series of muscular, mechanical tether hooks. They grasped the giants shoulders as an eagle grasps its prey.

Damaged actuator, right arm. That was this morning's job.

The man's corded arms were exposed, wholly ignorant of the chill. Scars criss-crossed them. Burn marks, winged shots, a jagged scar where a blade had punctured the skin just below the shoulder. Arno Gibson has proved a hard man to hit, harder still to kill.

The giant's scars run deeper. Underlit by spot lights affixed to the cavern walls, it presented a broad, hulking visage. The giant was a Titan. Atlas-Class. 25 feet of killing war machine. A boxy, lumbering brute, with a spherical head embedded in its battered torso. Designation EZ-4281, "Easy" for short.

Pockmarks dimple EZ's bodywork, just beneath the faded designation script. Its white flank was charred with several ugly scorches where platework had melted together, warping from intense, concentrated heat. The insignia across the chest was faded, all but hidden beneath a chalky layer of soot. The left arm was simply gone, trailing a series of limp wires that dangled freely.

That would be next week's job.

Calloused hands worked smoothly. The process was meditative to Arno Gibson. EZ's sensor lights remained dark. His AI Core was long dormant. Battery reserves had all but flat-lined six months prior. Arno missed his Titan's company, however limited it could be for conversation.

It was a question of credits. Arno was a contract soldier, had been since his eighteenth birthday. Born in the Core Worlds, he had been training and fighting most of his adult life. First serving in the White Jackets of the 405th, then early acceptance into the IMC's Pilot Academy after that shitshow on Prospero Four, three years later. Full Pilot Combat Certification by his twenty first birthday. Impeccable grades. The future had seemed so bright.

Arno dug in with an oversized set of pliers: his hands disappearing into a cratered impact wound deeper than his wrists. A lot had changed since Demeter.

Arno had been one of several hundred new pilots drafted in The Frontier War. Elite line operators tasked with suppressing and containing the rogue Militia forces. Special forces for hire. Contracts had been plentiful, the renumeration substantial. EZ was but one of the many trophies he acquired in the battles that followed.

Arno grunted as he hunted by touch alone. There, a lump of metal, foreign to EZ's hull. The scans had been right.

Eventually, he plucked out the misshapen, compacted remains of an old bullet, extracting it with a fierce tug and a dark chuckle. It was the size of a fully clenched fist. He pushed the welding visor up, rising to his feet as he examined the bullet, twisting it in the dim half-light. Trying to place it.

The Yuma System, perhaps? Or Minerva, the year before?

Arno wasn't sure. Days had folded into weeks here, and weeks into months. Resources were limited, out here in his sorry bolthole, far off in the arse end of the Outlands. But there was work to do. Countless wounds, poorly healed. He traced his gloved hands across hull, probing it with a fondness born from gratitude. EZ had saved him countless times, and paid for it dearly. Here, bubbled scoring, from a glancing laser battery. There, a buckled shoulder plate, from an impact so harsh Arno himself still felt it in his bones. He could still make out the imprint of the enemy Titan's knuckles.

The cavern was a vast chamber, one of a thousand caves interwoven throughout the valley. There was no civilisation for a hundred miles. Still, Arno was a cautious man. A lifetime of training has left him with an appreciation for the finer points of precaution. Sensors littered the surrounding passageways. Everything from infrared sensors to rows of empty ration cans bundled together by simple string.

Arno's ear twitched at the distant sound. The faintest rattle. Sound carried here.

The pliers hit the grille work of the deck with a clang. The welding visor soon followed.

Arno Gibson was already moving.

Arno watched them from the darkness high above. He was sleeved in his armoured Pilot suit now, feet braced against the passage walls. His helmet lights were dark. The Jump Kit cinched around his waist lay inert for now, all but hidden in the gloom. He had no weapon beyond a simple data knife.

The fireteam move with impressive diligence, single file along the narrow passageway. Tight drill work, even spread. Only a momentary clumsiness had betrayed their presence. Standard fireteam: four men, all told. R201s and Arc Grenades, supported by a light support weapon. Nervous, by the body language. Right to be, Arno thought.

Line infantry, unaided by automated units. Not an isolated unit. There would be more.

Sure enough, his wrist unit pinged. Sensor alarms, in chambers four and seven. Then three and nine, moments later. Alarms began to hoot, the sound distorted by the shifting tunnels.

The fireteam flinched, looking about uncertainly.

Their leader growled at them, and they resumed their advance.

Arno knew the terrain well enough to know the game plan. A platoon strength, judging by the number of contacts detected.

They were boxing him in.

Arno slipped free of his perch. Freefall, soundless.

Until he landed. By the time the Jump Kit flared it was too late. His elbow connected with squad leaders throat with a solid thump. The man collapsed, gasping. The point man spun on his feet, eyes wide as Arno's helmet flared to life.

"Shit! He's here, he's here! Contact! Contact!"

Years of gene therapy and honed muscle memory kicked in. Once more, the Pilot went to work.

Arno's visor crunched into the trooper's face, dropping him. He snatched a sidearm from the falling man's chest holster, spinning into a crouch. The pistol barked twice in the dark, echoing throughout the winding caves. The remaining two men crashed to the cavern floor.

Arno rose smoothly to his feet, sweeping. Four targets down. They would find EZ soon. Relocate, reposition. Re-engage.

"Enough."

The filtered voice cut through the dark. Arno snapped to bear on the source of the sound.

Another Pilot stepped forth from the shadows, shimmering as the cloaking field dissipated. Unlike the fallen troopers, she too was dressed in the ivory white of an IMC contractor, albeit stripped of any insignia. Both of her legs were cybernetics.

She already had a bead on him. Spitfire LMG. Just about the right level of hurt to paint him across a cavern wall.

"I hope you don't mind, but I took the liberty of disabling the charge you planted throughout the cave network. Paranoid, even by your exacting standards, Gibson."

"Blair." The pistol didn't budge. "Thought you cashed out on Leviathan."

"Contract expired, not me." Blair's eventually lowered her weapon. The movement carried with it the tinniest mechanical whine of servos. "Not all of me, at any rate."

Eventually, Arno lowered his own weapon, pulse still racing. Adrenal conditioning wasn't something you just switched off.

The troopers on the ground groaned as they writhed on the floor. Precise gunshots to the thigh and shoulder. The aim was too deliberate to be an accident. Blaire raised an eyebrow as she stepped over them, nonplussed.

"You left them alive. Losing your appetite?"

Arno shrugged expansively as he tucked the pistol into an empty holster on his hip.

"Give me a job, I'll show you a corpse."

"Good…" Blair chuckled, clapping him on the shoulder as she strolled past, her voice drifting against the high cavern ceiling.

"…Because we're hiring."