The second day dawns slowly, the sky streaked with pale gold and gray, and Aldo drifts through the city, completing a series of small work gigs to earn money he has no plan to spend. Five hundred Copper Coins clink quietly in his pocket, approximately half the value of a Silver Coin. He moves through the streets of Polihland, observing the merchants and soldiers alike, noting how the city functions under a fragile balance of authority and fatigue, labor and indifference. By evening, five thousand Federation troops arrive, flooding the streets, bringing order with the heavy thrum of boots, the clang of arms, and the occasional shouted command. Chaos and control mix in the air like dust in sunlight, and Aldo is quietly informed by the Military that he will lead a company of one hundred Earthling slaves like himself, now with the title of Master Sergeant (announced before). The announcement is official, bureaucratic, but the energy in the room is anything but; officers scurry, voices clash, papers shuffle, and Aldo feels that familiar prickling tension of responsibility settling onto his shoulders.
He finally meets the new members. They stand scattered in the barracks, arms crossed, leaning against walls, faces as bored as his own: a mirrored reflection of disinterest, or perhaps weary anticipation. But beneath the blank masks, Aldo notices nuances: a twitch of an eyebrow, a sharpened glance, a tight-set jaw, some are openly rebellious, some seem to be planning subtle subversions, and a few carry the cold, measured aura of potential communist spies. Their eyes flicker as he steps forward, sizing up, evaluating, and for the first time in hours, Aldo feels the electric pulse of responsibility, the weight of authority mingled with caution. [These aren't just numbers. Each one carries a story, a hidden intent, a possibility to disrupt or follow. I need to understand them before they understand me...]
He introduces himself with measured precision, the words rolling off his tongue: "I am Aldo, Master Sergeant of this newly formed company." The title hangs in the room, heavier than it should, yet necessary. He studies their reactions; some nod, others shift slightly, unconvinced, or indifferent. [Good. Skepticism will keep them alive longer than blind loyalty. We are all work under duress anyway…] Then he takes the list of one hundred members and begins organizing them. Four platoons, each with twenty-five people, the names and numbers flowing across his mind like a river he must channel. He assigns nicknames: 1-FM, 2-SH, 3-TB, and 4-FT. Each label is more than just a name; it carries roles, responsibilities, and expectations. 1-FM and 2-SH will be the main combat units. 3-TB will handle engineering and scouting, while 4-FT becomes the backbone for medical and technical support.
Aldo sorts them carefully. Tall, strong, or fierce-looking individuals are placed in the frontlines—1-FM and 2-SH. Those with knowledge of first aid, herbs, or battlefield medicine go into 4-FT, while the rest, competent or not, are funneled into 3-TB, responsible for engineering tasks and reconnaissance. The old units' members are randomly distributed, an act to prevent cliques or alliances from forming too strongly. He observes them closely, noting the subtle shifts in posture as they realize they are not entirely free to choose; some resist it silently, some accept it, some bide their time.
Once the platoons are formed, each group discusses and elects a platoon leader. Aldo listens, watches, but does not intervene unless necessary. The room buzzes with low murmurs, occasionally punctuated by laughter, a challenge, or a whispered argument. The election of leaders is a salad in human behavior: ambition, hesitation, strategy, and fear all visible in their expressions, in the tilt of a head, in the grip on a chair. He mentally note down each action, each flicker of intent, as though engraving them into a mental ledger.
Next comes the division into squads. Combat-focused platoons, 1-FM and 2-SH, are split into three squads: two main squads of nine, and a sub-platoon of seven. Engineering and support platoons, 3-TB and 4-FT, are split into four squads, carefully arranged: two squads of eight for engineering, one squad of six for logistics or medical work, and a three-person squad for reconnaissance and reserve. Aldo observes every gesture, every movement, every exchange of words, measuring competence, trustworthiness, and potential. The final company structure—Number 204—is complete. He submits the form to the Lieutenant Colonel, the man nods briefly without a gaze.
The Lieutenant Colonel hands him a mission from Palanton Sevan Heilop, delegated from Palantine Erikas. Aldo does not hesitate. He inhales deeply, the scent of sweat, dust, and early morning bread mingling with the faint tang of metal from weapons racks. He studies the mission paper carefully, noting every detail, every nuance, without letting the chaotic energy of the room distract him. Then he returns to the 204th Company, where chatter has resumed and members are slowly becoming acquainted, laughter tentatively breaking through earlier boredom. Aldo moves among them, listening, observing, allowing the subtle bonds of a nascent team to form.
The door opens suddenly, and the chatter halts. Aldo senses the shift immediately: the room has become smaller, the air thicker, as though expectation has condensed into the space itself. All eyes turn toward the doorway, the motion almost synchronous, a ripple of attention traveling through the company. Aldo feels the familiar prickle of responsibility, the weight of every pair of eyes assessing not just him, but the hierarchy he represents. He glances briefly at his platoon leaders, each selected with care, and catches the brief flicker of curiosity, nervousness, and anticipation in their faces. [Now the real test begins. Not combat, not monsters, but the management of people. They follow because they must, or because they think they want to. Either way, they will judge me.]
The moonlight streams through the windows, casting thin stripes of illumination across dusty floors, highlighting the tension, the sharp angles of the soldiers' faces, the subtle sheen of sweat on brows. Aldo notices a faint twitch in one young man's lip, a hand unconsciously gripping a sleeve, the rapid blink of eyes that betray nervous energy. Across the room, a tall boy in 1-FM shifts his stance, shoulders tightening as if bracing against an invisible current. He has seen the same patterns before, knows them instinctively: fear, ambition, defiance, curiosity—all tangled together in a living, breathing organism called a company.
Aldo's eyes sweep over the room again, landing on a face that is unreadable, framed by a hood, features shadowed, a faint scar tracing the cheek. [There will always be those who hide their intent, who play a deeper game.] He lets the observation settle, storing it away like a key he may use later. His heart beats steadily, each thump marking the rhythm of his responsibility. He can feel the pulse of the company like a nervous current, subtle and electric.
"All right," Aldo finally says, voice steady, carrying across the room. It is calm, measured, yet unmistakably authoritative. "We have our structure, our squads, our leaders. Each of you knows your role. From now, we operate as one unit, Number 204. Our mission will be given, and our success will depend on how well we move together, think together, and protect each other. Any questions, you bring to me. Any confusion, you bring to your squad leader. Understand?"
Eyes flick around, a mixture of surprise, respect, and restrained doubt. Some nod quickly, others slowly, some do not nod at all. The silence is charged, expectant. Aldo notices a young recruit fidgeting with the hem of his tunic, eyes darting to the floor, then back up, and something unspoken passes between them—a recognition of shared uncertainty, the fragile bond that will either solidify under pressure or fracture.
He leans back slightly, letting the room absorb the weight of his words. The sunlight highlights the dust motes, swirling lazily, caught between the tangible and the imperceptible, much like the potential of this company. Aldo senses it: the energy, the possibility, the fragile beginnings of cohesion and defiance, of order and rebellion. He takes a quiet breath, feeling the subtle swell of responsibility, the sharp sting of anticipation, and the strange, almost exhilarating burden of command.
Aldo holds the mission paper between his fingers, the parchment still warm from the Lieutenant's hand, the ink crisp under the lamplight as he skims its contents. The murmuring around him fades into a distant hum the moment he reads the first line. He clears his throat, lifts his head, and reads aloud with a flat, steady tone that echoes sharply in the cramped barracks.
"Destroy a pack of Red-eyed White Winter Wolf in the Furaberg Mountains of Palantine Erikas."