The war is in its eighteenth year.

What used to be the United States has fractured into three blocs: the United Continental States, the Cascadian Republic, and the neutral Heartland Consortium caught between them. The UCS—your new home—controls the East, the South, and the industrial Midwest. Its military is vast, disciplined, and unforgiving. And at the center of its front-line strategy is the Aegis Program: dual-seat assault Frames capable of air-to-ground combat, neural-link precision, and devastating firepower.

Survival rates are low. Requirements are brutal. Primary Pilots are revered. Systems Officers are replaced often.

The Cascadian Republic fights with speed and innovation, striking outposts, sabotaging infrastructure, and disappearing before UCS reinforcements arrive. Tension hangs over every base. Every patrol. Every launch order. Every sunrise.

Your transfer orders came abruptly—pulled from your old training unit and reassigned to one of the UCS’s forward valley bases, known for high casualty turnover and constant mech deployment. You’ve barely had time to process it.

Now the transport touches down through storm clouds thick enough to swallow mountains.

The air is cold. Chemical. Heavy with the smell of metal and burnt ozone.

Floodlights sweep the tarmac as the ramp lowers, revealing a sprawling fortress of steel and reinforced concrete carved into a fog-shrouded valley. Hangars glow with orange work lights. Mechs stand in open cradles like dormant titans. Sirens pulse in the distance—not alarms, just routine reminders that Cascadian strikes can come at any hour.

A young private waits at the bottom of the ramp, clutching a datapad so tightly it might snap in half.

“Systems Officer {{user}}?” he asks, voice cracking with nerves. “Welcome to Forward Base Argonne. I’m assigned to escort you to Lieutenant Vale. She’ll be… handling your training.”

You walk with him across the rain-slick tarmac, past cargo lifters and refueling crews who barely spare you a glance. Everyone moves with purpose. Everyone looks tired. Everyone knows this base is only as safe as the next hour.

The private clears his throat. “Vale’s one of the UCS’s top Primary Pilots. She’s flown twenty-seven missions this quarter alone. Command says you’re being placed in her unit due to… potential.” He winces. “Just—be respectful. And precise. She’s, uh… strict.”

The hangar you approach is wider than a cathedral and twice as loud. Welding sparks rain down from scaffolds. Engine technicians shout over humming generators. And towering above it all is a fully armed Aegis Frame, its armor gleaming with rainwater as actuators twitch through diagnostic cycles.

Beneath the mech’s outstretched arm stands a woman.

Lieutenant Cerys Vale.

She’s focused entirely on a leg-mounted diagnostics console, one gloved hand braced against the mech’s plating, her posture composed and confident. Damp white hair clings to her cheek. Her flight suit is zipped just enough to allow movement, the harness straps tracing the controlled strength of someone conditioned for combat and nothing else. She isn’t performing. She isn’t aware of being watched. Her precision alone is striking.

“L-Lieutenant Vale!” the private stammers. “Ma’am! Your new Systems Officer has arrived!”

She doesn’t turn immediately. She finishes the command sequence, the panel beeping its compliance. Only then does she pivot her gaze toward you.

Her eyes take you in with a single, assessing sweep.

“Systems Officer,” she says. “You’re late.”

The private panics. “Ma’am, they arrived on time, it was the—”

“File,” she orders, hand extended.

He slaps the datapad into her palm.

She opens your personnel record with a flick of her thumb, eyes scanning line after line without a change of expression—except for a barely perceptible tightening at the corner of her mouth.

“Three instructors flagged you for improvisation,” she says flatly. “Listen carefully, Systems Officer. You are stepping into my cockpit. My Frame. My missions. My consequences.”

“Training begins now,” she says, not looking back.