Lance awoke to the darkness, and near silence, cut only by the light and crackle of a small fire. He tried to sit up, but was immediately pulled back down to the ground by teh same pain, dominating his chest and left arm. At ninety degrees to his right of the fire sat George. He was a large, built man whose hair was brunette with grey streaks. Lance was about to say something, but was interrupted as George said "Yer lucky I found ya when I did." His tone was flat, and melancholy. His accent was gentle, and reminiscent of old Terra's European English. "That Silthys would've had his way with ya, and there'd have been nothin' left to save."

Lance tried again to sit up, and pull his legs against his torso, but was swiftly reminded of the injuries he'd sustained in both. He winced, and gently returned to the ground. Again, George spoke. "Fractured right arm from the bite and pull. The other, snapped from a pretty nasty fall. Cuts down to the bone across both your left leg and your right arm, and a few broken ribs on yer left side. We'll see if the nerve damage is permanent or salvageable when we get home."

Lance sighed, and said nothing. "Why're ya out here, boy?" Asked George.

Lance turned his head to his left, away from George. "I just needed time away to think" he answered.

"Ya chose a hell of a place to do so."

"I had a lot to think about."

"I know ya did." 

Lance looked back at George. He saw a sorrow in Goerge's eyes. A sorrow born from the loss of a friend. "I knew your father too, Edmund. You forget, we trained together, we studied together, we almost served together. It wasn't until I met Lillia that I chose to stay, and settle for the title of MechTech instead of MechWarrior. That fact gave me a lot to think about too. If I'd gone with him, maybe he'd have survived."

"I know all that. You two might as well have been brothers."

"The key difference between the two of us, boy, is I bothered to stay put while I processed the bad news. You left. We have our jobs. We're both MechTechs. I know you're still learnin' and have a very long way to go before you can call yourself a MechTech, but you're still being paid to show up, weld, grind, move and paint parts. Consider yourself lucky you've got an uncle for a boss."

"You want me to apologize?"

"No. I want you to see the bigger picture. It's not all about you. James was a man for his people, for his community. Half the depot crew is affected by his passing. But, this means you have an entire village behind you, ready to help. All you need to do is ask for it."

Lance fell silent, wanting to roll on his left, but unable to. George moved close to Lance. "You'd better get some more rest, Edmund. We've one hell of a trip home ahead of us."

Two months have passed since then. While Lance's physical wounds are still healing, he is functional. Though his mental, emotional wounds are still very fresh. He has resumed work among the Kathil Supply and Repair Depot. It was a massive, bustling, open courtyard a quarter mile across. Around the edges of this courtyard are dozens of tall Mech bays with catwalks straddling between them. Just outside this courtyard was several massive storage sheds, some of which doubling as foreman's offices.

Lance strode along one of these catwalks to his current workstation. He carried with him a welding gun, his disposable electrode and his power pack. He looked upon the 'Mech he and the rest of his crew was tasked with repairing. The task was almost done too. The 'Mech in question was a Trebuchet. The TBT-5N in particular. Lance found its paint job interesting. It was a silvery grey with blue edges. On its right torso was the emblem associated with the mercenary company it belonged to. The emblem was just a simple blue circle with a yellow border. Within the circle was a silhouette of a BattleMech which Lance didn't recognize, and it looked to be riding a horse.

He'd spent the last week performing extensive repairs on its right arm, and replacing most of the armor everywhere else. The right arm's internal structure was shot to shit, with most of the actual frame needing replacing. Lance reached his station, down at the 'Mech's left forearm. It was early in the morning, and he was usually among the first to his station. He set up his equipment, set his power pack to "standby" and set it aside. Attached to the railing of the catwalk was an industrial laser cutter, designed specifically for BattleMech and industrial 'Mech internal frames and armor. It was long, large, with hydraulic assists and a horizontal handle which Lance used to guide it to the desired position.

As he cut at the old welds holding the damaged beam in place, his mind wandered. His thoughts darted between thoughts of his father, the war, BattleMechs, the 'Mech he'd found in the woods, and his slowly healing injuries. One always segmented and looped into another.

First his father. Lance knew well who his father was. He knew his father to be a man for his people and family. He knew the risks of leaving to become a MechWarrior. He also knew the sort of world he lived on, one not only close to Capellan space but also one that was a major manufacturing and industrial hub for the Federated Suns. This made his world a target for the Capellan Confederation, and in need of stern defense.

This defense would most likely take the form of BattleMechs, by virtue of their sheer firepower, and raw offensive and defensive capabilities. This segued into images of the various weapons employed by these BattleMechs. Images he cycled through as if they were on a computer. Eventually, he came to think of the AC/20, the most powerful BattleMech weapon still in service to date. The weapon used as the main gun for the 'Mech he'd found in the woods.

He remembered that day perfectly. The awe of just having found such a derelict machine, let alone having understood it. The fear of what else sought to use it as a home, the Shellback Silithys. He looked at the cast on his right arm. It was thin, but extremely stiff. More than enough to keep his fractured forearm in place, and still allow him to work. He looked at his hands, half expecting to see his father's. They were still distinctly his, and he saw them as only his, but he wondered as his mother would say how she saw so much of his father in Lance's eyes and hands alike.

At this point, his task was performed semi-mindlessly. He'd cut God knows how many beams in this way before, and was able to do it mostly on muscle memory. His thoughts continued in this loop for a large portion of his task. However, this was interrupted suddenly. Lance was touched on his right shoulder. He looked and was startled by something that resembled a face, but clearly was not.

It took him only a fraction of a second to realize it was but a simple welding mask. "God dammit, Mikey!" Lance forced his composure to return. "Take off that mask before you get my attention next time."

"Oh, sorry. " The figure lifted the mask, and revealed himself to be Lance's closest friend, Michael Slate. "Figured I'd come see how you were doing."

Lance had heard this a thousand times before, and every single time, it was only half the truth. "I'm holding it together. What does George want me for this time?"

"He's at the foot of our current project, and wants to talk to you. I can take over what you're doing now."

Lance set the mounted laser cutter into its default standby position, and walked past Michael. He descended down the side of the catwalk on an open elevator. During his descent, he turned to look to the boots of the Trebuchet. There, he saw George conversing with what looked like some mercenary. George looked past the man, and noticed Lance's approach. He said something that was drowned out by the noises of labor, and the merc. walked away.

George approached Lance as Lance did the same. Once they were close enough that they could hear each other through the noise, George said "You're falling short of what I taught you, boy."

"How so?"

"It's mostly little things, but things I've shown you to avoid, nonetheless. What's worse is we both know this is entirely unlike you, Edmund."

"Any specifics?"

"When cleaning up the welds, you either don't clean them enough or you start grinding into the frame. Neither of which is a good thing. This is just one of a few. It's almost as if you've stopped paying attention to your tasks."

"Sorry to disappoint." Lance's tone was dry, detached. He tried to turn back towards his previous task. George grabbed him by his arm.

"You're not going to avoid this so easily, boy. I know something's up. Weather it's somethin' to do with what you found in the woods, or you just hit your head in the woods is beyond me." 

Lance fell silent. He tried to look like he didn't care, like he was simply ignoring George. But George could see right through that. He saw in Lance's eyes that he did, but opted to keep it quiet. Unsure how to proceed from here, he pointed Lance back to his previous task and said, "Send Michael back down here once you get up there."

Lance returned to the elevator. He thought about things George had said in the past. Things meant to encourage Lance. Instead, these only left him feeling smothered. Everyone constantly reminding him "I'm here for you; all you need to do is ask." He's glad they're there, but ultimately, that's all he needs. He just needs them to be there, they don't need to do anything else.

Once he reached the top, he saw the progress Michael had made, having finished removing the beam Lance was working on, and half done with the next. He walked up, and tapped Michael on the shoulder. Michael turned off the laser cutter, and looked up at lance.

Michael mockingly acted startled, "You should put a welding mask on before getting my attention, Lance." As hard as Michael tried, he could not hide the amusement in his tone.

Lance rolled his eyes, "C'mon, Mikey, give me the cutter. George wants you back down there."

"What did I do this time?" Mikey chuckled.

"That's between you and him."

As Michael walked away, Lance could only think of him, and the one title which he associated with the name at the time. 'asshole'. But the term was not thought intentionally condescendingly, but almost as a term of endearment. A title which Mikey owned, and wore proudly. Lance liked that about him. He donned his own welding mask, and resumed his work.

Michael was next to descend down the elevator. He saw that George was waiting for him. As he approached, he shouted over the industrial noise, "What did I do this time, boss?"

"It's not what you did, it's what I need ya to do, boy." George's tone was gentler, more personal now. A tone he usually reserved for Lance, and -once upon a time- Lance's father. This birthed a sort of urgency in Michael. Whatever George wanted, it must've been important.

"What do you need?"

"I need ya to keep an eye on Edmund. I'm sure you already have been, but in case you haven't been already, I need you to start doin' so."

"Way ahead of you, boss. I've been paying attention since you two came back from the woods. He's taking it a bit rough."

"Understandably so. The boy lost his dad just a couple months ago. You'd take it hard under similar circumstances."

"You want me to report my observations?"

"I'm just askin' ya to be there. Not to spy on the boy. His business is his own, and we'd all be the ass to interfere."

"I'll see what I can do."

George smiled it this. This is the first time Mikey has seen George smile since before he went into the woods looking for Lance. He must've done something to impress the guy. Mikey felt good about this. "You should get back to work in the warehouse, Michael." George said. Mikey nodded, and moved out.

The day stretched on, but was productive. Lance, along with the rest of his crew was able to finish the lower arm on the Trebuchet, and brought it one step closer to completion. The repair and maintenance of BattleMechs was tedious work to say the least. The precision, the attention to detail, it all needed to be perfect. Otherwise, they risk failure of a key component. If such a thing were to fail on the battlefield, it could cost the someone's, or multiple people's lives.

Lance's shift came to a close at the start of the early evening. He packed up his personal equipment, and moved over to the warehouse where Mikey worked. He weaved his way through crates, cargo containers, and warehouse workers.

'Where are you, Mikey?' Lance thought to himself. 'We haven't got all night. Daylight's burning.'

Eventually, Lance stopped aimlessly wandering through the massive warehouse, and listened. He leaned against a crate, closed his eyes, and focused on the sound around him.  He listened to the various voices that filled the space. One by one, he isolated and cycled through them, searching for Mikey this way. If he could find Mikey's voice, he could follow that.

As he cycled through the noise, and the voice, he heard conversations mostly of random, work-related topics. Some of personal topics. None of this was relivant to what Lance needed. He needed to hear Mikey.

'Of course, the one time I need him to open his mouth, he's dead silent.' He thought to himself. 'He's probably off taking a shit.'

Five long minutes, he stood there, eyes closed, ears open. He cycled through voices like merchandise on a manifest. He was about to give up the effort when he finally heard, "And I told the beam to get bent." followed by uproarious laughter. Mikey finally did what he did best. He finally made a bad joke. He could follow this.

He came off the crate and moved towards Mikey's voice. Again, weaving through crates, cargo containers, and warehouse workers, ultimately spotting him by his tall, lean shape paired with his short, blonde, curly hair. He approached his friend, and touched his shoulder. Immediately, Michael's attention was on Lance.

"We still on tonight?" asked Lance.

"Yeah, let me finish this call first." Michael turned away and continued speaking. "Yes, I know I'm looking for the shipment of machineguns. I don't want the weapon's manifest, I want the general manifest." There was a brief pause, with indistinct chatter coming from Michael's private communicator. "Asshole, I've already looked in the damn weapons manifest. If they were there, I wouldn't be asking to see the general manifest." Another pause. Michael pinched the bridge of his nose in annoyance. "Look, my shift is about up, and the boss gets mad when I stay for overtime. Can we solve this tomorrow? Thank you."

Michael hung up, and stowed his private communicator. "What was that about?" asked Lance.

"Missing shipment of M100 Heavy Machineguns." answered Michael. "Probably nothing major, I suspect they were just mislabeled. The issue's been kicking my ass for the past hour. The quartermaster hasn't been any help, despite what he thinks."

"Well, it's time to go. Anything we can use on our little project?"

"Nothing they won't notice went missing. Funnily enough, its the parts we need right now."

"Like what?"

"Well, we received an entire 'Mech console not too long ago. I'm mostly waiting for it to sink deep enough into the general manifest before me make a move on it."

"We could theoretically make off with it tonight. You could mark it as sold on the manifest, take it out of the warehouse, and no one would question it."

"Why wouldn't anyone question it?" Michael's tone now was tainted with a hint of irritation.

"Think about it. How many people would have to notice in order for it to become a problem. On top of that, where's the evidence that it was us, if we just mark it as "sold"?"

Mikey thought for a moment. He determined that any suspicion would require coordination between the warehouse crew, accounting, and the MechTechs themselves. The odds of all of those realizing something to be missing was small.

"Alright, let's do it." he said.

Michael marked the 'Mech console as 'sold' as soon as he was able, and Lance readied his pickup truck and trailer. "Get the forklift, and bring the console over." said Lance. Michael did just that.

It was a nearly two hour drive through the woods before they made it to the Hunchback Lance had found two months prior. It looked vastly different now from what it did when Lance first found it. The two boys had spent entire evenings well into dark repairing the essential components of the 'Mech. They'd pulled off all the growth, and set up a scaffolding and pully system to climb up to the 'Mech's head. This was their primary goal. Lance had already determined the engine is functional, and the legs of the 'Mech had displayed minimal damage. This told Lance that if he were to set up some method of controlling the 'Mech, he could get it standing and walking. This meant he only needed to repair the head. The console he had just acquired was the final piece of the puzzle.

"How are we gonna get this up there?" asked Michael. This was an embarrassing miscalculation by the boys. "It weighs more than the two of us combined."

Lance thought for a minute, pondering different methods of getting the thing up top. "We could take it apart, ship it piece meal."

"That'll add two days to the process on disassembly and reassembly alone, let alone hooking it up to the 'Mech itself." replied Michael.

"Would you rather we do it wrong?"

"Everything we've done here is wrong. Every part up there is stolen."

"If you have the time to do it twice, you have the time to do it right the first time. It's not like we have a deadline."

Michael begrudgingly agreed. "I'm just not a natural rulebreaker." he said.

"Then why'd you opt to join in?"

"I can't just let you fail on your own." Lance heard the joking tone which he usually associated with such a statement, but saw Michael's eyes, he was dead serious.

Both Lance and Michael got to work disassembling the 'Mech console. It was a long, tedious, and delicate process, in which they had to separate the various electronic components to split the console into segments. The two worked with a great deal of synergy, able to observe each other's task and method and apply that to their own. 

By the time they broke the console down into segments small enough to pull up top, darkness had already fallen, and they were working in the headlights of Lance's truck. What's more, the wind started blowing much harder than normal, and the boys heard thunder in the distance.

"Stom's coming." said Lance. "Let's cover it up." He pointed at the consol, and then gestured to a tarp in the back of his truck. They nailed the tarp down over the console, and weighed the nails down with large stones from the hillside on which the Hunchback rested.

"That should hold it." said Michael, now shouting over the sound of the wind rushing through the tree tops, and the tarp edges flapping around.

"Let's get the hell out of here!" Lance replied. Lance uncoupled the trailer from his truck. As he was doing so, the rain had arrived. Drops easily an inch across coming down in such volume that it reflected the light from the truck's headlights. Within seconds, he was soaked. Lightning lit his view for fractions of seconds, and thunder roared so deep it sent vibrations through his chest cavity. He finished uncoupling the trailer from his truck, and hopped into the driver's seat. Michael was already waiting up shotgun.

Lance put the truck in gear, and made a hasty U-turn, only barely missing the console and its protective tarp. He drove down the same path he had driven every night for the past two months. The sheer volume of rain hindered his visibility, even as the windshield wipers slid across its surface on its highest setting, water would accumulate again behind them. This forced Lance to drastically slow his pace. For twenty minutes, Lance drove semi-peacefully. The rain slowed drastically in relatively short order, as it usually does when produced in such volume. The wind however, did not. Silhouetted against the lightning he saw treetops thrashing about, and heard great snapping sounds cutting through the sound of the rain.

"Hell of a storm tonight, eh?" asked Michael.

"Just a little." raw sarcasm flowed from Lance's voice and into Michael's mind. The both couldn't help but smile. Behind this smile, stress clawed at Lance's mind, and caused a sort of acute fatigue to set in. Between having to drive through this storm, thoughts of the console, and its potential exposure to these rather destructive elements, and the recent passing of his father, which never left his mind, and likely never will, his focus on the path was fragile to say the least.

A flash brighter than all other's they'd seen this night, a defining roar, and a lingering series of cracks that pierced through the rain caused Lance to slam his breaks. Immediately in front of them, a tree fell, its side lit ablaze by the lightning strike. The blaze was quickly fading in the rain, but was more than enough to suggest what exactly had occurred.

"Dammit! That'll take forever to clear!" shouted Michael.

"Get the chainsaw." replied Lance. "Should be under the back seat."

Michael unbuckled his seatbelt, and leaned over to look and reach in the back section of the truck's cab. He found the saw, and pulled it out. "Found it! Let's get to work."

The two hopped out of the cab, the subject of their task illuminated by the headlights. Michael pulled the ripcord, and the chainsaw whirred to life. He first began cutting the branches, hoping to allow Lance to safely grab the logs he'd soon cut. They opted to let the branches just fall. Lance only ever grabbed them to get them out of Michael's way. 

"C'mon, Mikey, hurry up!" Lance barked.

"You want the saw?" answered Michael. "Take the effing saw. Otherwise, let me work! The rain's slowing me down, it'll slow you down just as much."

"Not as much as us standing here chit-chatting."

Once all the branches were cleared, Michael began work on cutting the trunk. It wasn't too wide, and if he cut the logs small enough, they'd only weigh about forty pounds each. He started at the driver side of the truck with the intent of working his way right. Not long after he made the first cut in the trunk, there was another blinding flash, accompanied by a roaring crack. It all came from behind the boys. They looked back, and saw the shadowy silhouette of another tree falling towards them, with flaming branches tossed about. Michael retreated in front of the truck, but Lance was cornered, and pushed his back against the truck. The trunk landed right in front of him, but the stub of one of the burning branches slashed his left

thigh wide open. The wood, though not aflame, was still hot enough to burn him on contact as it glided through his leg.

With one hand, Lance held his wound, and with the other, he opened the truck's driver side door and climbed in to escape the branches. He maneuvered over to the passenger side, and exited that way. Upon exiting the vehicle, he saw Michael looking down the driver side of the truck, likely searching for Lance.

"I'm over here!" Lance called. "Let's get back to it." Michael immediately noticed Lance's fresh wound.

"How the hell are you walking?!" he demanded.

"Sheer fucking will, or something. Get back to cutting!" In reality, Lance could barely stand. The gash was deep enough to compromise Lance's stability. Paired with the deep burning pain which filled his thigh, even he was confused with how he was standing. He wouldn't question what was saving his life though, and would do his best to swallow the pain, and move on with his task.

It took almost an hour to cut and move the tree trunk. They had no proper equipment outside of the chain saw itself, and were battling darkness, wind and rain. "Alright," said Lance. "Now let's get the hell out of here!" They climbed back into the truck through the passenger side. Michael deposited the chainsaw in the back seat. Lance put the truck back into gear, and drove off, down the path. It was nearly midnight by the time they made it back to town. The wind had slowed, and the rain had all but calmed.

"Am I dropping you off at your place?" asked Lance

"Probably..." answered Michael. "Oh, God, my old man's so pissed."

"At least you don't have to deal with my mother. There is no guarantee you ever see me again."

Lance dropped Michael off, and wished him luck. The trip between there and his own home was only five minutes, if that. Yet, it felt like hours, as his mind worked through hundreds of hypotheticals regarding his return home so late at night, and after the worst storm Lance could remember. 

'Might as well be death row' he thought to himself.

By the time he got home, it was almost a quarter until one in the morning. He parked his truck in his mother's garage where he usually did, and entered his home through the door in the garage's side right side. The house was dimly lit, but lit, nonetheless.

"Ma, I'm home." There was no response. "Ma? You asleep?" Still no answer. 

'There's no way she's asleep. She never goes to sleep before I come home.'

He proceeded inside, slowly, cautiously. He passed the kitchen and dining room, past the living room, as he was about to enter the hallway that connected the bedrooms, a light turned on behind him. Startled, Lance pulled out his pistol and held it ready. It took him only a fraction of a second to identify who had turned on the light, and he hastily stowed his weapon. She had the dark hair and amber eyes he knew to be his mother's. The eyes were lit ablaze with a fury Lance had seem few times before, though never directed at him. 

"Hi, mom. How was your day?" He asked nervously. 

"It was fine, until dark." she answered. "Why the hell weren't you home?! I know you have some hobby that keeps you busy well into the evening, but I've said multiple times, get home before dark!"

"It took a little longer than I wanted it to." Lance answered.

"You should have dropped it and come home when the storm hit!" She had assumed Lance's "hobby" took place in the city, and in this assumption, forced Lance into a position to admit fault, but keep a lie in place, or tell the truth, and show the logic behind his late arrival. But in doing so, he will make known exactly what his "hobby" was. A secret he wanted to remain as such.

"Sorry, ma. It won't happen again." Lance chose the former. He felt horrible about it, but if he made known what he has been working on for the past two months, he worried she'd shut him down if she found out.

"I wish I could believe you." she said. "But this isn't the first time you've pulled something like this." A moment of silence fell between the two.

"We both know why I need you." she said. "Ever since James-" she paused. "Your dad, died, you've been supporting the house. I'd get a job myself, but no place will take me."

"I know, mom. You get sick real easy. And you need me to pay the bills because you can't find a job." Lance's tone was melancholy, sincere. He'd heard it before, and knew it to be truer than he'd like. He'd seen his mother bedridden for weeks on end. He understood his role in his house, and never wanted to compromise this.

"You're grounded." she said. "It sounds selfish, I know. But I can't trust you to come home on your own accord anymore. Until you are eighteen, you are to go to work, have your fun there, and then come straight home. Nothing special, no more late nights, no more secret hobbies. Not now that I know you'll put them above your own safety. I need you alive. Not just because you're supporting me, but because I love you."

"I love you too, mom." Though he meant what he said, Lance had to conceal his irritation. He had to finish his Hunchback. If nothing else, he had to attend to the console he and Mikey recently stole. His mind rushed for solutions, but he found none. "I should be getting to bed" he said. Though fatigued, he only desired to escape further conversation.

"We both should be." said his mother.

There was little rest that night, as Lance's mind was filled with thoughts of his 'Mech, his newfound tight situation, and how the hell he'd get himself out of this new fix. Still, he found no one solution.