Caleb hauled his canvas duffel through the steel blast doors of the Seventh Division staging bay.
The transit rail from his apartment took two hours and three transfers. He had packed everything he owned in twelve minutes: two shirts, spare socks, a cracked shaving kit, his mother's old account folder, and the knife he used to pry bone from saw teeth when the disposal yard tools jammed.
Cold air moved through the bay in mechanical breaths.
Twelve recruits stood in the intake line.
Only twelve from the eighty who survived the urban zone trial.
"Form a line. Shirts off."
A medical technician rolled a diagnostic cart down the row with the dead-eyed efficiency of a man who had said the same sentence to too many replacements.
Caleb pulled his gray undershirt over his head and dropped it onto the bench.
The technician stopped in front of him.
Blue laser grid swept across Caleb's torso. The scanner chimed an error.
The tech tapped the side of the device and frowned at the screen.
"Your file says you took blunt force trauma from a Danger Class Six yesterday," he muttered. "Shattered clavicle. Three fractured ribs. Internal hemorrhaging."
Caleb kept his breathing even.
"Combat stims did their job."
The tech pressed a gloved thumb against the bruising around Caleb's right bicep.
Pain answered, but not enough.
Under the skin, the bone held firm. Beneath that, the thing in Caleb's chest stirred at the pressure and sent a hollow, animal heat through his stomach.
It wanted calories.
It had burned through the last of the hospital nutrients knitting him together overnight and now demanded payment with interest.
Caleb locked his jaw until the cramp passed.
"Stims do not knit bone in twelve hours," the technician said.
"I heal fast."
The man looked at Caleb's face, then at the scanner, then at the line of recruits waiting behind him.
The Seventh needed warm bodies more than it needed clean mysteries.
He hit the hard reset and cleared the error code.
"Cleared."
Caleb put his shirt back on before anyone spent too much time looking at the scar down his chest. He hoisted the duffel and followed yellow painted arrows toward the armory.
Heavy steel mesh separated recruits from rows of tactical gear.
At the counter, Caleb dropped his ruined disposal jacket onto the metal surface.
The quartermaster snatched it, inspected the stains, and tossed it into an incinerator bin.
"That had pockets," Caleb said.
"It had infections."
The quartermaster pulled down dark-gray fabric and black armor plates, then shoved the pile across the counter.
"Put it on."
Caleb pulled the canvas underlayer over his shoulders. Smart fibers tightened around him and adjusted to his core temperature with a faint prickling sensation. The carbon-fiber chest plate fit over his ribs like an argument. Scratches marked the surface. The buckles had been replaced twice. Surplus, but not decorative.
He strapped thigh rigs into place and stepped into combat boots that had already learned somebody else's feet.
From his pocket, he pulled the matte-black Seventh Division pin.
The needle drove through the uniform collar.
It looked small there.
Still real.
The quartermaster slapped a stack of manila folders onto the counter. A black pen rolled after them.
"Standard Form 8-B," he said. "Next of kin. Debt inheritance. Organ salvage rights. Disposal of remains."
Caleb picked up the pen.
"Kaiju-touched corpses get claimed for biological research," the quartermaster continued. "Your family receives pension dispersal if the paperwork clears. Base salary routes to your debt holder until the balance changes."
"If?"
"Paperwork fails often."
Caleb clicked the pen and signed.
Another page.
Another signature box.
Another polite way to say the Defense Force had already pictured his body in a bag.
"How many?" Caleb asked.
"Eight."
"That seems excessive."
"We like to be thorough."
-----
Ten minutes later, Caleb pushed open the door to Barracks Four.
The narrow room contained a steel footlocker, a wall hook, and a stiff mattress wrapped in factory plastic. Light leaked through the hallway grate. Somewhere deeper in the building, a pipe knocked against concrete in a slow metallic rhythm.
He dropped his duffel onto the floorboards.
The armor plates dragged at his shoulders. His right arm ached. The thing under his sternum ground against an empty stomach until even the air tasted thin.
He sat on the mattress and reached into the side pouch of his duffel.
The matte-black comms chip waited there.
Static crackled from the tiny speaker the moment his fingers touched it.
[???] I told you to put it back, Caleb.
He stared at the chip.
[???] I like hearing you breathe when you are tired.
Caleb set it on the footlocker.
"You hacked military medical staff," he said.
[???] I borrowed a mouth. Do not be dramatic.
"Three mouths."
[???] You counted.
"Hard not to."
The speaker hummed with soft amusement.
[???] You looked good in the black uniform. But I did not like the way that corporate doll touched your collar. She keeps putting her hands near what belongs to me.
Caleb rubbed one hand over his face.
Kikaru, Elara, Iris, Captains, the Guild, debt collectors, and now a private whale with the emotional restraint of a blade balanced on glass.
Everybody wanted a claim.
Nobody wanted to pay what the claim cost him.
"I am going to sleep," Caleb said. "Orientation is at zero-eight-hundred."
[???] You do not set the schedule. Your stream belongs to me. Put the chip in, or I wipe your division assignment from the military grid right now.
"Do it."
The static cut out.
The barracks went quiet enough for the pipe knock to sound loud.
Caleb leaned back on his hands and looked at the footlocker.
"You delete my assignment, I lose the salary. I go back to the disposal yards. That means scraping marrow for thirty credits a cycle while debt collectors get tired of asking nicely."
He nudged the chip with two fingers.
"You want a show, you need me on the front line. I need sleep to hold a rifle. I am not a pet."
The speaker stayed silent.
Caleb reached over and flicked off the overhead bulb.
Dark filled the room.
"Call it a truce or find another streamer."
One minute passed.
Two.
The chip rested on the steel footlocker between them like a tiny black verdict.
Then a green light blinked once.
[???] Four hours.
Caleb closed his eyes.
[???] Then you are mine again.
A slow breath left him.
He picked up the chip and pressed the adhesive behind his right ear. The sting locked the hardware into his skin.
He fell back onto the plastic-wrapped mattress before she could decide gratitude was required.