Beforehand, I just want to apologise for keeping you guys waiting so long. Turns out 'shortly' meant a year...something I'm surprised by, myself. But life complications, work and COVID-19 have had profound impacts on me. But fortunately for you, I got so lost in writing this that I realised halfway the chapter was actually too big, so has been split into 2!

Fortunately for you guys, that means another chapter should be on it's way soon! This time, I mean it. Thank you all for your patience, and I hope you enjoy the read. The next few chapters are going to be flashbacks that cover how Lizzie and Benik met, and their most profound moments together before we hop back to present day!

Prologue

Chapter V - 'First Impressions'

~ Benik

~ Training Hab 1 - Tyro Garrison

~ 7:31am - 8 weeks, 21 days ago

He wasn't going to lie to himself. But this was the most bizarre manner of getting pulled back into the fold.

Usually, the standard protocols for being re-enlisted and reassigned to a new squadron was more official and less spur-of-the-moment, with an insurmountable bollock-tonne of paperwork to fanny about with. But no matter how the COG decided to handle it, it didn't make it any less unforgivable.

Benik didn't expect to be taken under the Phoenix Omen again after what could be classed as desertion was undertaken with such little remorse.

The only qualms he had was just what it had cost him. Had the price he paid not been so damn high, Benik would've been rid of any semblance of conscience regarding him essentially turning his back on the Octus Canon. Sure, a good soldier follows orders, but does that mean to the ends of ignoring what he saw? What he experienced. What was taken from him.

No. No fucking way.

Despite the state they found him in, he had no intention of staying in the Garrison hospital,- make that the Garrison full-stop,- any longer than he needed to; the moment he was cleared of any immediate ailings, he retrieved his gear and aimed to slip away into the city to begin what remained of his lost existence in some shithole pub sulking away at the bottom of a bottle until the COG finally came for him with cuffs; he wagered they'd file for treason and give him the firing squad, or life in incarceration- either sentence he would accept with clarity; he was a dead man, already.

He also wagered that he'd still get a good day's worth of wallowing in self-pity and rum until they tracked him down and came to drag him away. That was until a CIC detail had the kind of heart to wait for him outside of the hospital doors the moment he was discharged, complete in a standard COG-patterned car. Wankers practically gave him the red carpet.

Fast forward a handful of hours later with some patronising of his peers and some shit excuse of a trial, Benik Thorne, prodigal son of one Captain Thomas Thorne, found himself surprised and humiliated, as he was 'exonerated of his treason' against the COG and reinstated as a private.

With cruel irony, Benik knew this 'honour' was a worse fate than becoming some lone Outsider nomad or a drunkard that clumsily slithered across the New Ephyra streets. He was a disgraced deserter that was scooped into conscription only because NOW the COG realised war was once again upon them, and desperation would become a very rapid norm for the recruitment and conscription processes. He was once a promising model soldier- son of an already-prestigious hero. Now he was a nobody with no squad, no rank, and had a growing blackness around him that would no doubt spread amongst his comrades...and people will talk.

Benik swallowed the bitter lump in his throat- his arse numb from being sitting on the metal-rimmed edge of the table as he stared into the inactive lenses of his helmet that he held in a grip that was devoid of any real intent to keep it in his grasp. The silence of the training hab barracks was deafening- Colonel Valker had instructed him to come to the grounds for 7:45am to 'meet the new crew', but had taken the opportunity to come a good 25 minutes earlier. He'd hoped the extra time would let him think, rationalise and stare down the host of demons that brewed inside him. But for the first time, Benik was unable to get his vice. Sighing, he sets his helmet down on the table beside him, and looks to his trusted MKIII Lancer which lay vertically beside him- propped up on the stock with the body slanted against the table edge. Taking up his rifle, he lay it in his lap, resting his left arm over the body as his right hand came to softly caress the grip.

Closing his eyes, Benik felt the cool beaded chains wrapped around the rigid handle rivet across his fingertips in silent melody. He felt his jaw quiver- an icy tremor roiling down his spine. Sucking in a trembling breath, he opened his eyes as his fingers came to the end of the grip- the set of three COG tags wrapped around it resting into his digits. He stared at the weathered iron cogs- the names stamped into the metal flesh of the tags threatening to still his breath. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came forth, and his mouth slowly- ashamedly- drew to a silent close.

Usually he'd find talking to inanimate objects instead of people was nothing more than a naive coping mechanism. But this was all he had left of them- left of Sierra-5.

But what could he say? How could he even begin to think of such a cruel prospect. The part of him that continued to grieve held on for hope that somehow and somewhere, they knew how sorry he was. And that no matter how hard he tried...he'd never shake the blame for what happened. But the majority of him- the part that knew that what is dead is exactly that; that his friends were now nothing more than gore-slicked remains and a haunting reminder of his greatest failure to himself, and those he cared for the most. And that they would never know his guilt and remorse.

And with that, Benik's eyes screwed shut, and his face fell into his waiting palm; a series of quiet sobs shook his frame. All his thinking, rationalising and hopes of justifying his detestment to the COG all fell through in the wake of the crushing guilt. And so, he continued to quietly cry...the first time he'd been able to ever truly mourn his squad, and it was on the very doorstep of being folded into a new one. He didn't hear the door open and the approaching footsteps growing louder before coming to an abrupt stop to his immediate right.

"I suspected I'd find you here at this time." Valker's voice flatly spoke, snapping Benik from his reverie who immediately sniffled his woes away, hopping from the table and mustering enough will to toss a respectably-rapid salute; his Lancer falling to his left side as he held it by the muzzle.

"Sir." He dryly said in greeting, hoping on some foolish whim that Valker wouldn't take heed of his sudden emotional blow-out. A whim that would go unanswered. The colonel studied him greatly, and in a singular motion, whipped out a handkerchief and offered it to him.

Benik conceded, and after dropping the salute, took the handout, and dried his eyes. Valker's boots drew closer, but he didn't hold out a hand and expect Benik to give back the handkerchief.

"If you don't wanna talk, you don't talk. But if you do, my office is open." Valker offered dryly, earning him a flat scoff from Benik, who balled the handkerchief up and stuffed it behind the folds of his breastplate, but he gave no retort to the colonel. A stare of dull iron is levelled his way, as Valker tucked his hands behind his back.

"You're actually offering to listen to me, now, sir?" Benik asked flatly, leaning his rear back against the desk and taking his helmet back into his hands, which he studied with no real clarity. The colonel rolled his jaw, and took a few steps closer.

"Seeing as how you're sassing one of the few reasons you get to keep wearing that armour instead of prison slacks, I'd say your tone and decorum could use a bit of work, private."

Benik levelled a glare of jagged glass at the colonel, who certainly registered the challenge.

"Yeah, and so can your script. Save me the 'better yourself' speech, colonel, I've gotten past the point of platitudes, and if anything, I'm all out of trust." He stops looking Valker's way. The colonel frowned.

"You ever stop and wonder why the board didn't settle for incarceration? Why this never went beyond to the First Minister, herself? Why you still wear the uniform?" He waited for an answer that never came.

"Because you were right, Thorne. And we were wrong. I was wrong. And it took me to convince those stubborn bastards in the council of that fact, and that we now needed every capable fighting Gear on our side. They put their fingers in their ears, initially; wanted to set an example with you- just like they tried to do with lieutenant Fenix. But I stopped that, and made them see reason." This sparked a flare of indignance inside Benik, who levelled a confused and somewhat irritated glance Valker's way.

"So...what? Are you expecting gratitude? 'Thanks, sir, for finally admitting you fucked up and now understand the gravity of what humanity's about to find itself in. Please don't send me to The Slab'?" He scoffed at Valker's withered glower, who bowed his head slightly. Perhaps it struck him a bit more than intended. Not like Benik cared; if gratefulness was something Valker was actually vying for, he could fuck right off. Which made his actual contrition all the more surprising.

"No. In fact, part of me suspected you would've refused our offer, told us where to stow it and chose prison or exile. But you did not. Why? I'll tell you; you are a good soldier; you are a Thorne, just like your father before you. And you are your father's son...and your father was a gallant man until the very en-"

"With respect, sir, but I'd really appreciate it if we kept my dad out of this." Benik's interruption was swift, but there was no longer any anger or resentment. Not towards Valker, anyhow. Whilst he was never overly-fond of the man, he had to concede on the fact that it was only Richard Valker that could've possibly pulled the strings to allow him to stay in the fight, and as much as his pride would've thanked him, he was no good to anyone being stuck behind bars or in a perpetual drunken haze. But what happened was still a very recent and undeniably-painful memory for him; no amount of life-saving earned him a free pass to use his dad's name and reputation as emotional leverage.

Valker nodded at this, nonetheless, and checked his watch. At least he knew there were boundaries not to cross, especially if those boundaries belong to the prodigal Gear you have no doubt shouldered the burden of; this idea alone both amused and greatly unsettled Benik. The sound of distant footfalls- multiple footfalls- could be heard coming from the doorway, and Benik felt his eyes turn to an uncertain future as it closed in on him, one conglomerate of boots-on-deck at a time.

"Ahh. Right on time. On your feet, private. Your new team's coming." Without a moment's hesitation, he quietly sniffled, straightened his back, and slipped on his helmet. The visor flickered online- the sharp azure glow of his eye lenses illuminating to life, as he took his Lancer in-hand and waited. The door parted ways, and a trio of Gears stepped into the threshold- all varying in build, armour and weapons.

Valker stepped between the two as a middleman, and gestured from the Gears to Benik.

"Echo-4, this is private Benik Thorne; your new squaddie."

~ Lizzie

Today wasn't like any other. Sure, Echo-4's mornings every monday was routine training on the firing range, but there was a purpose to why they got ragged out of their pits at dead-ass early o'clock.

Usually she wouldn't have minded the early rise- she still showered, geared up and had breakfast on time, but she certainly lacked her usual chipper pace, today. She didn't even keep in line with Vas or Ellen,- lingering just a couple feet behind and listened to the two converse as they strided down the corridors towards the training hub. She knew it was to do with this supposed new guy that was getting folded into Echo, and that was great. But at the same time, she felt the timing was a bit too soon; it had been a couple weeks since Kieran died, and whilst she'd gotten over his death, she didn't quite warm up to the idea that he was just a blank slot waiting to be filled.

He was a good guy. Sweet, charismatic and a bit too egotistical. Maybe if he wasn't so brash, he wouldn't have taken that Outsider's Longshot round to the head. Lizzie silently thanked herself that they'd only dated for a week or so prior to that- well, less dating and more 'let's hang out, talk about cars and engines, then fuck like teenagers when our eighth round of drinks ran empty and our bar tab broke the receipt printer'. Lizzie shook her head at the thought with a sad smile beneath her helmet.

'Sorry, Kieran. Fuck me, I'm a horrible person.' She internally chided herself.

Her eyes had barely adjusted to bright lights- given how the corridor's theme appeared to be dull yellowed bulbs on the verge of death. If it wasn't for the stimulating azure glow of the visor within her helmet sharpening her optic nerves, Lizzie was fairly certain she'd still be half asleep, walking like the undead. As she looked up from watching her feet like a sad child, her ears finally pitched into her squaddies' chatter, and her smile only broadened at Gorchev's look of abject disgust; she knew exactly what the choice topic was.

"That's not fair, Alvarez. You're not allowed to take the Cole Train. It's like taking a fucking Hammer of Dawn to a shooting gallery." Gorchev glowered at the palpable smugness of Alvarez, who shouldered her Markza with a shit eating grin.

"Ah-ah-ah, Vas.~ You didn't state anything about retired icons. In fact, whilst I'm at it, I'll take the whole Cougars team for my league. I'm sure the Pellesian Prowlers will do just fine against them..." she snidely flashed her pearly whites at him, which provoked a gravelly exhale from the ostri sergeant. She turned to give Lizzie a wink, whilst Gorchev shot her a look that almost seemed pleading for support. Lizzie simply shrugged, her side picked.

"Don't ask me. Uncle Clay knows Cole better than almost any other Gear. My opinion would just be...unfair bias, but, I think the Prowlers might find themselves the prey on this one.~" She made no effort to hide the shameless support to her best friend; Gorchev shot her a look at the abject betrayal, which caused Lizzie's guard to drop, a giggle-snort leaving her chest to solidify her as the traitor she is. The three exchanged wholesome smiles, even though one wore a helmet, and the two continued to march in silence for a while. Sometimes the comfortable lack of words was better than trying to simply fill the air with small-talk and bullshit. With Echo, Lizzie grew to savour the silence.

The signs stenciled on the walls in slab-grey paint indicated they were getting closer to the meet-up that colonel Valker assigned them to. Lizzie wagered they had another minute or so. Seems the idea ran through everyone else's head, as Alvarez broke the silence.

"So...anyone feel this is a bit short notice?"

"How so?" Gorchev quipped. Though there was no curiosity in his tone.

"I mean...Stuart's funeral was only a couple days ago, now Valker's just decided to go 'rise and shine, we're filling the vacancy, get down here at the asscrack of dawn'?" She pursed her lips. Gorchev shrugged.

"I will admit, the timing is...a bit strange. Our first rendezvous with this new blood is to immediately put our trust in him and vice versa on the firing range? Yes...the more I think of it, the more it stinks of something crude. Mmh...and we've not quite yet adjusted to having a man down." Gorchev rolls a contemplative purr in his throat.

"Some of us more than others." Ellen quipped, and gave Lizzie a somewhat sad, apologetic smile.

She should've been upset, she really should have; it would be sociopathic not to be hung over a dead lover who was also your squadmate, but Kieran and her were hardly an item. She was sad he was gone, but she wasn't heartbroken or going through dozens of tissue boxes every night. Mustering a smile, she nods to Alvarez.

"El, I'm fine, okay? It's...Stua-...Kieran was a good guy. But I'm not dragging myself through the dirt. I'm just a bit pissed that they've treated him like just another number. Not like we're at war, aside from the odd skirmish against Outsider roughnecks, so I don't see the hurry in filling the void and testing his or her mettle right off the bat." She hummed. Ellen studied her best friend for a few more moments, before ultimately nodding and averting her gaze.

"I'm sure Valker has his reasons. The man's a fucking engima with how he thinks and conducts himself, but he gets results, and they're never of the negative type. Anyhow, eyes up, and straighten-backs, Echo. We're here." Gorchev's sergeant voice took charge, and Lizzie felt her limbs and posture comply entirely.

As she gripped her Enforcer tight, she took a brisk pace for a few seconds to catch directly up to Gorchev and Al, who parted sidelong to let her fit in the middle. Coming before the large bunker-like door, huge gas pistons hissed into life- decompressing and causing the door to lift up as Echo marched in.

Lizzie's eyes met the uniform of Valker as he stepped forwards, standing between themselves and a lone Gear. They threw him a salute in unison, which he reciprocated, before gesturing to them and the new sage-armoured soldier respectively.

"Echo-4, this is private Benik Thorne; your new squaddie."

Contrary to what usually happens when Gears meet for the first time, there were no greetings. No 'hello's or even a simple goddamned wave shared...the room was suddenly met with a different kind of silence the instant the new guy's name hit ears. This one was ugly, weighted and awkward. It's fairly common to have some kind of feeling of crossed wires when a new face is met, as is the norm of social interactions, but the air just felt wrong to Lizzie. She certainly couldn't place the sudden iron grimness upon Gorchev's face, and had no idea why Alvarez's smile had just...vanished altogether.

The aforementioned Thorne wasn't exactly seeming too buddy-buddy, either. He stood a few inches behind Valker- mk.3 Lancer gripped semi-tightly in his gloved palms as the helmeted gaze didn't focus on any of Echo in particular. Gorchev broke the silence, beckoning to the colonel.

"Sir. A moment, please?" His voice was empty, and that did friggin' nothing to calm Lizzie's already-anxious vibes. The colonel followed the sergeant's request, and the two went to one side. Before Lizzie could spark her self-righteous nosiness and try to eavesdrop, Ellen lightly nudged her, a rather-false smile returning as she began to approach the new guy, in which Lizzie followed.

Gorchev disappeared into the periphery and even though her and Ellen came within touching distance of Thorne, the man's visor remained affixed on what could only be Valker and Gorchev in the background.

Points deducted from this guy for being a rude asshole...

Lizzie frowned at the greeting (or rather lack-of), but took this moment to study Thorne's armour, and found herself equally impressed and curious.

The armour was a slender, more-agile form of Gear uniform, and not the usual bulky shells most frontline Gears donned- complete with a rich sage-green paint job. The sleeveless breastplate was outfitted with a dark grey shirt that ran to his wrists, whilst it showed his average build to its fullest; Lizzie found herself internally restoring a few of those points to not being shy about his shorter stature. Most Gears she knew were utter meatheads who loved flexing, or felt the need to show they were utterly jacked by neglecting shirts or sleeves on their armour. Yet this guy was confidently illustrating he was happy enough not being the biggest cock on the block. That, or he didn't care. Given his cold, unwelcoming demeanour, she wagered it was the latter.

Alvarez leaned side-on, waving a hand with pursed lips to grab his attention, which awarded her with a slow stare from an emotionless helmet.

"Hey! Hi! You alive in there?" There was no response. "I'm private Alvarez. Ellen Alvarez. Welcome to Echo-4." Lizzie couldn't help but place the forced greeting in her voice. This whole situation was dripping with bizarre. Clearing her throat timidly, her first works came with an embarrassing croak.

"And I'm Li-"

"Yeah, I know who you are." The soldier's voice came suddenly and sharp- not hostile, but not exactly greeting, which caused Lizzie's words to violently jam in her throat. Her head bobbed softly, followed by an incredibly-lame "Okay."

Alvarez frowned at the gesture, but withheld from dressing-down the new guy, clearly offering him the benefit of the doubt.

"So. Thorne. This come as a bit of a shock to you, as well? I mean, usually squad inductions are a bit more formal and less…"

"Spur of the moment? Yeah. But not like I'm surprised; command's got a habit of cutting corners when it suits them." Benik finished with an idle shrug, before looking back to Gorchev and Valker. Whilst Ellen maintained her eyesight on the new squaddie, Lizzie couldn't help but follow Thorne's gaze and found herself alarmed at the quietened-yet-evidently-heated discussion with Valker, which summarily came to a close. The chit-chat between Al and Thorne wasn't something she was focusing on, even though she could tell it was awkward at best, forced at worst. She just couldn't remove her eyes from the thunder face Gorchev wore as he strided back over to the squad- gradually restoring his equilibrium as he came beside Thorne and Alvarez. Sergeant mode came on in full-flash, and he dressed Thorne up-and-down with his eyes.

"Private Thorne. I am sergeant Vasili Gorchev; Echo-4's under my command. Welcome to the team- and I mean -team-, understand? I don't want no heroics or lone wolf shit."

Thorne twitched under Vas's crushing height and monologue, then nodded firmly.

"That use of a double-negative pissed me off way more than it should have done, but understood, sergeant. This isn't my first rodeo." Despite the flatness of his words, Lizzie couldn't help but smirk a tad at Thorne's bite, even if he was perhaps seconds away from getting his head gnawed-off. Even Alvarez snorted, albeit most likely in bemused indignation rather than the actual spark of humour Lizzie found in it. But Vas was hardly impressed; folding his arms across his chest, he sneered.

"I am aware. But if you're going to continue correcting me, or let that smart ass take the reins on your tongue, we'll have a problem, understand?" He's met with a silent nod. "Kravsy." He droned in his native dialect, before looking back to Lizzie and Al.

"Alright, we've wasted enough time with pleasantries; suit up, Echo. You know the drill, and we've got our weekly dance. Let's see if Thorne can keep up, ey?" An embittered glower played upon his charred lips, and he made his way towards the complex entrance- Alvarez in tow, leaving Lizzie alone with the newbie with a wordless nod.

Valker had already left at this point, so the silence had begun to grow like a brumak in the lobby. Lizzie found herself just...staring at Thorne; so much needed taking in from the past six minutes, and she couldn't decide whether she was intrigued, intimidated or annoyed by this whole situation. It didn't help that Thorne's visor was matching with hers, inch-for-inch. She felt like she was shrinking under the gaze like a bug under a microscope. Tiny he may be compared to other Gears, but the stonewall persona this asshole had was giving her uncanny chills...

She couldn't understand what was with the palpable tension in the air; Gorchev's word with the colonel, Al's forced cheer…'I am aware'? Her fellow Echos seemed to have some kind of issue with Benik Thorne. Why? She couldn't place it. Sure he wasn't exactly the warmest with greetings, but not everyone is great at first impressions, especially when it's down to merging squads- other than that, he seemed...fairly normal, if a bit jaded and rude. They lost Kieran, but the hell happened to his squad? Not like it mattered, and it was unlikely he went psycho and killed them al-

"Can I help you?" His voice, flat and weighted, scythed through her thoughts, provoking her to startle with a small yelp. She fumbled and nearly dropped her Enforcer onto the deck. She cursed herself internally, but earned herself a bit of forgiveness. Say what they will...but the standard-issue modulator in the helmet did an endless myriad of wonders to that accent he had. It reminded her very much of lieutenant Chutani, albeit less harsh- it was exotic and rich, whilst giving it a sense of roguish spirit and mystery to it. It was...well, she was struggling to decide whether it was fucking intimidating, or...very sexy. From a non-biased view, that is. He wasn't sexy. Probably. Maybe not. Maybe he was. They only just met. Haven't even spoken. Why was she thinking this in such great detail?

Shit.

She danced on her words for a moment, which cocked Thorne's head her way, before she lamely motioned to the complex.

"Uhm-uh...after you." She wanted to shoot herself after meekly conceding like that, but end of the day, what else could she have done? Tell the guy he was on her mind after exchanging two sentences with him? Nahh, he'd probably shoot her, himself.

Fortunately, he let her off lightly with a shake of the head and what only sounded like a scoff, before lofting his Lancer into his hands, and walking down the range. Lizzie watched his back for a few seconds, and couldn't help but wonder if maybe she could've made him feel more welcome. Whatever bad blood this guy seemed to have with Gorchev and Al had nothing to do with her. They were total strangers, and she could've at least not make him feel like a total pariah. Lizzie's shoulders slackened and a defeated huff followed.

"Great first impression, Elizabeth." she scalded herself, quietly, before regaining her confident posture, and switched her soldier mode on.

Training was about to begin.