Bio-Mech Warrior

0900 Hours — Camp Citu, Cornalian Region, New Sandesta

Two Days Later

"I heard they're going to test the new weapons," one mercenary murmured.

"Yeah," his companion replied. "Those SynthMechs may be old tech by today's standards, but they're still deadly."

Andrew caught fragments of the conversation as he walked past. He didn't slow down. Their words hung in his thoughts, but he had somewhere else to be—Colonel Gray's office.

He stopped at the door and knocked sharply.

"Captain Andrew Rowley, Black Hounds."

The moment he stepped inside, he spotted Peter standing before the Colonel's desk.

Peter turned with a grin. "Oh! Speak of the devil."

Colonel Gray cleared his throat. Peter straightened, sheepish.

"Apologies, sir."

"You're dismissed, Sergeant," Gray said, his tone flat.

Peter gave a quick salute and exited. Gray's sharp gaze shifted to Andrew.

"You're late."

"Apologies, sir. It won't happen again."

Gray sat back down. "We've received updated clearance. With rebel forces deploying bioweapons and genetically engineered monstrosities, our superiors in the Oceanic Union of Fereldia have greenlit a new initiative."

Andrew tensed. "What kind of initiative, sir?"

"Equipment for Emerging Threats, Protocol Two. Effective immediately. We're rolling out new combat assets—advanced exoskeletons and fourth-generation SynthMechs."

Gray paused, then added, "You've been selected to pilot one of them. Your scores and experience place you above the curve. And frankly, I know this isn't your first brush with the tech."

Andrew's face darkened.

"With all due respect, sir… I'm not saying no. But my past experiences with SynthMechs haven't exactly been pleasant."

"I understand, Captain. But the assignment stands. If you wish to opt out, you'll need to submit a formal request to High Command."

Andrew hesitated. "I'll think about it."

"Good. Your team's near the SynthMech hangar. Dismissed."

Andrew saluted and stepped outside. The sunlight did little to lift the weight he carried. It wasn't the steel he feared—it was what the steel reminded him of.

---

1100 Hours — Open Grounds Near the Hangar, Camp Citu

The field buzzed with activity. Heavy tarps were being pulled from the SynthMechs—dark silhouettes rising like ancient titans reawakened.

Most stood at eleven feet, sheathed in jet-black or steel-gray armor. The largest loomed at fourteen feet, an imposing behemoth.

Several models were already undergoing trials—sprinting laps, lifting cargo, performing precise balance routines. Their fluid motion was uncanny, like knights in armor performing martial kata.

Andrew stood quietly, absorbing it all. Compared to the clunky prototypes he remembered, these moved with frightening grace.

"Captain Rowley!" a voice called.

Ronald, the upbeat technician from earlier, jogged over with a pad in hand.

"Here to test a unit?"

Andrew looked past him, eyes settling on the towering SynthMech in the center of the field.

"I'm not sure."

Ronald followed his gaze. "Good eye. That's the Viking EX-9. Fourth-generation. Fresh off the docks."

"Fourth gen?" Andrew asked.

"Yup. The old Lancer models are being phased out. This beast is the new workhorse for the O.U.F., Command loves it."

"You know your stuff."

"I try." Ronald grinned. "So, you gonna give it a spin?"

Andrew hesitated—until a voice behind him cut in.

"Well, well. If it isn't someone from the Black Hounds."

He turned. A woman in a blue-trimmed combat suit approached, dreadlocks tucked under her helmet. The canine insignia on her shoulder confirmed her unit.

"Who are you?" Andrew asked.

"Jennifer Grady, First Lieutenant. Wild Dogs, Second Squad." She smirked. "And you've been staring at my baby."

Andrew raised an eyebrow. "The SynthMech?"

"She's mine—soon to be, anyway. I don't like people eyeing what's mine."

"I'm not looking to start a fight," Andrew replied calmly. "If you want the Viking, go ahead. I'll pick something else."

Jennifer's grin widened. "No, no, Captain. That's not how this works. I'll let you have it—then I'll take it from you."

Her squad mates whooped and hollered behind her. Andrew sighed.

"Do you accept my challenge?" she asked.

Andrew looked at Ronald, who looked like he'd just swallowed a lemon.

"I want a sparring match," Jennifer said. "Combat protocols only. You can arrange that, can't you?"

"These aren't toys," Ronald grumbled. "If you want to play war, find someone else."

"I accept the challenge," Andrew said suddenly.

Ronald turned, alarmed. "Captain, she's a trained SynthMech pilot. She's no rookie. You won't beat her easily."

Andrew's eyes never left Jennifer. "Then I'll just have to pull my own weight."

Ronald exhaled. "Fine. But if you lose, you forfeit the Viking. Command wants only the best piloting their machines."

"I understand," Andrew replied, unwavering.

"Then let's do this."

Jennifer grinned and turned away, escorted by her crew toward her hangar bay. Ronald groaned.

"You sure about this?"

Andrew nodded.

Together, they made their way to the storage bay housing the Viking EX-9.

In less than an hour, the testing field would become a battleground. And only one pilot would walk away as the chosen wielder of the newest weapon in modern warfare.

After suiting up, Andrew approached the towering SynthMech. It knelt like a sleeping beast, its cockpit exposed with a ladder extended toward its chest. He took a deep breath.

His hands trembled slightly as he climbed. Each rung brought him closer to a memory he didn't want to revisit.

"You alright, Cap?" Ronald asked from below.

"I'm fine," Andrew replied. "No need to worry."

As he stepped into the cockpit, a low hum resonated through the frame. The interior lights flickered to life—clean, modern, and surprisingly spacious. LED panels wrapped around the cabin like a command deck. Everything was neatly arranged, sharp in design, yet intimidating in silence.

Andrew glanced back once more and gave Ronald a thumbs up.

The cockpit sealed shut with a mechanical hiss. The darkness was brief—then the main display activated, fed by the head-mounted optical cameras. The outside world flickered into view, distorted for a second before stabilizing into a crisp panoramic field.

He inhaled slowly. Then exhaled. He couldn't let the past shake him now.

His eyes scanned the internal systems—heart rate monitor, elevation, balance, internal temperature, radar, sensor calibration. Everything was operational. No red lights. No anomalies.

"Status check," Ronald's voice crackled through the comms.

"Everything green. I'm ready," Andrew replied.

He activated the neural interface.

Small sensors in his suit synced with the SynthMech's control nodes. A soft pulse throbbed at the back of his neck—then the machine responded.

The Viking EX-9 rose from its kneeling position with a fluid grace, servos whining softly. Its fingers flexed, then the limbs followed in sequence. Andrew didn't just command it—he felt it.

Each movement was natural. As if the steel frame was an extension of his own body.

From across the field, another SynthMech marched forward—sleek and agile, clad in a midnight-gray shell. Jennifer Grady's third-generation Lancer model.

Her mech stopped at the other end of the practice ground, stance aggressive, almost predatory.

"Better show me a good fight, Captain!" Jennifer's voice blared through her mech's external speakers.

Andrew tightened his grip on the controls, his heart pounding behind his ribs.

He didn't reply. The Viking took a step forward.

This wasn't just a test.

It was a reckoning.