---Author's note---

Please give me extreme leniency in my writing this. I do not know much about the BattleTech universe, what house/faction makes what 'mech, tank or battle armor, or when sequential things happen. I do not know of the worlds and their climates, or when wars happened between them or what attitudes characters would have towards each other. I believe the quality of writing is in the essence, not the technicality. So do not boil me on little things like that, please.

As far as battles go, I see them as more swift, highly tactical bouts rather than long, dramatic duels. I might not pay attention to all of a 'mechs small er pulse lasers or ultra AC2's and their corresponding damages and effects. If a 'mech were outfitted with short-range weaponry, it would be as an assault gun in real life, that is used only in tight situations-no running up to an LRM-armed enemy. Weapons will kill enemy 'mechs much faster than in the canon games and series.

Another important thing-I will treat tanks as about the same strength as 'mechs, since they are roughly the same tonnage and composition. There is no reason a sturdy, low-built rolling machine should be as pathetically fragile and under-gunned as in the Mechwarrior games.

I've played just about all of the MW games and recently gotten into Classic BattleTech and Mechwarrior: Dark Ages.

---End of note---

"Ten, hut!"

A large, burly man, typical drill sergeant, paced back and forth between rows of soldiers. Indian summer, as usual. So humid, you could paint with the sweat in the air.

My name is Franklin Rouse, and I've recently been drafted into the Com Guards. It was, of course against my will, as it was the first time I'd been caught up in a fighting force.

At the time, it had been a pirate mercenary unit. I carried a rifle too big for my ego as well as my small, awkward hands, and only fired to scare. I was a fresh-faced rookie, straight out of a training academy. My father had needed the money at the time, and the mercenaries offered a hefty salary to anyone who would fight for them, foot soldier or 'mech jock. I was a foot soldier. I did nothing more than deter and distract, since I was none too good a shot nor a negotiator. I would hold the guards out while the others went in and did their thing. I would never hear just what that thing was until after the sortie. Sometimes I would like the thing, sometimes I wouldn't. And sometimes I'd simply be shocked.

My father is deceased now, and it's partly my fault. He was hammering out a deal with a pirate captain, and with all the luck of a bald poodle, was spotted by a Com Guard reconnaissance ranger. The little dirtball had just happened to be carrying a sniper rifle, with a zoom just good enough to see the pirate's insignia and a bullet good enough to hit from more than a mile off. But he had none the aim to hit the pirate. He struck the man right in the stomach. Five weeks later, he felt the fatal effects of the punctured liver.

Now I'm facing the nostalgia of being yelled at by an over-worked, underpaid tool known to most as the drill sergeant-or, in my case, sir. I am learning drill's I've been taught, and snickering at the rookie mistakes of other, less or more fortunate people.

"Frank! You paying attention?"

I looked up from my drab Com Guard overcoat. The man was looking right at me, chewing his storybook tobacco. He spat it and gave me that sideways smile that always managed to annoy the hell out of me.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you! Yeah, that's right! Little piss bucket."

"Sir! Yes, sir!"

The sergeant went back to his routine of sewing up his boots just right, about as important in a live-fire combat situation as what brand of vile TV dinner you were forced to have last night. I looped it up, then inverted them and double-knotted. Like preschool.

"All right! Now, then! Pair off! We're gonna do some shooting practice! Mr. Wagner will show you how to do it. Out there, boys!"

He pointed out to a large dirt-and-gravel yard, with a small shawl you would lean against as you fired out at the targets. You would keep one eye to the scope, keep your trigger finger squeezed down just a little bit, then twitch when you think you had it in your sight. You would do it slowly, one or two bullets per second, so you didn't run out. When the sergeant (in this case, Wagner, a more reasonable but equally plastic- actor) came around, you would fire more rapidly and hold your breath to keep steady, and hope he didn't embarrass you by kneeling down and helping to correct your form. Then you would put down your rifle when he rang the bell, line up and head back inside for more verbal lashings from the other sergeant.

I did all of that, like clockwork, and just happened to do very well, so well that it warranted a response from Wagner.

"Good shooting, boy!" was his typical response. It made some hate you, and others respect you. Some might even ask you for advice so that they wouldn't have to forfeit dignity in asking Wagner.

As usual, I was last in a line of pushing, shoving greens who would happily gulp down the best of the worst food ever served. Vegetables were always dry, withered or starched with little bits of mold (or spice, little difference in nutrition or flavor). Bread was stale and mostly rough bits of crust with crouton-like chunks mixed in. It literally had to be ground up and pasted back together in order to form a half decent patty. Meat was always over or undercooked, and usually bland mutton or even less desirable entrails of some sort. They would be combined into sandwiches, salads, soups and other concoctions, then packaged cheaply to wait for starving soldiers.

After lunchtime, you would be forced out into the natural light again. This time, however, you wouldn't get to shoot. You would get to run around the perimeter three times until your lungs were worn out. Then you'd do it again. Every muscle in your body would ache. Your legs and feet would be on fire. When you came around to the sergeant, whoever it may be, you would pick up the pace until you were out of his sight, then you would slow down to the familiar but necessary jog. You would sneak moments of walking or rest when the particularly chatty soldiers weren't around. You would drown in your own sweat.

Running the perimeter had its ups. You would get to pass the driver training compound and see other Com Guard newbies who were lucky enough to be tank operators. You would watch the sixty-ton metal beasts make tracks and shoot apart stone barricades. Two more often used vehicles were the PO and the Bulldog. The PO was a sturdy, heavily armored vehicle with a powerful 120mm gun that had a surprisingly fast rate of fire. Its two heavy machine guns could tear apart any men, armored or not, who would be foolish enough to attempt a frontal assault. The Bulldog was its all-or- nothing cousin. It had a huge laser as a main turret weapon, which lacked the armor-piercing punch of most ballistic weapons, though it was accurate enough to hit battlemechs more easily. On either wide were two racks of short-range, unguided missiles. They were supposed to supplement the laser at close range, since they packed enough explosive power to knock through the weakened armor that the laser had blasted away. And anything too nimble to hit it would be subjected to a hail of 30mm shells from its own machine guns. But the extra firepower was all at a cost, for the bulldog had thinner armor on the sides and front, and, more importantly, the turret.

I could certainly be considered an unlucky man, even in the filthy urban life I've had to live. With my widowed mother in a hospital for some elderly disease that had sprung up and two indifferent brothers, one of whom had gone to college, I had really no one else to support me. I was stuck here for the six-month training period, or for a shorter time, if something would happen to spring up.