Callsign: Talon (Fueled By Fury #1)

Chapter 15

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

I stand near the edge of the hangar floor, wiping the last streaks of grime off Raven One’s charred plating. Even bent forward, the mech still looms over me. Its limbs bear the telltale streaks of scorching from our most recent outing, small trenches of carbon and melted paint that make me at once nostalgic and anxious. My gloved fingers linger at a jagged burn on the upper torso.

I can’t help smiling. When I built Raven One here, we had nothing but scraps and prayer. Now, it feels almost official. Especially with the beaten hulks of stolen scaffolding and half-finished drones scattered around, a sure sign we were building something bigger than ourselves.

Sparks’ voice behind me startles me from my thoughts. “David. We might have bigger problems than plating damage.”

I turn as she approaches, carrying a datapad that sports our security logs. Sparks is never one for sugarcoating. Her expression says she’s serious. I step away from the mech’s flank and pull off a stained work glove. “What’s wrong?” I ask.

She holds the datapad out, tapping near a series of glowing red lines. “I’ve been scraping merc channels all morning,” she explains. “Word’s getting around that a certain scrawny pilot with a custom mech is stepping into bigger shoes. Corporate- backed folks are sniffing around, and I think we both know that means more than curiosity.”

I exhale, my breath stirring faint dust motes. We’ve been on a hot streak with infiltration jobs, enough to rattle a few shadier networks and likely to scare any big militarized outfit that would prefer we stay small and invisible. “So they want to know who we are? Or they want us gone?”

She shrugs. “Could be both. I recognized a handful of intel brokers who don’t exactly ask friendly questions. They tend to shoot first. They might test us or send small squads to ‘check out the premises.’” Sparks pauses, tapping her finger on the datapad in agitation. “We might need to think about perimeter sensors, decoy shipping routes, you name it.”

I nod, my gaze drifting toward the massive double doors sealing our hangar from Valis’ industrial sprawl. The clang and hiss of faraway factories feels like a heartbeat in the background, a reminder that we’re an upstart in a cutthroat system. “Upgrades,” I reply. “And maybe we shuffle our supply runs. We can’t bribe the same customs inspectors again and again.”

Tabitha pipes into my earpiece. “Let ‘em come. “I’ll personally scramble every line of code in their mechs until they crawl out of the cockpit, whimpering for a bedtime story and not even asking you for lube before you line up that metal codpiece, put the thrusters on full, and ram?—”

“That’s one approach,” I interject to get her to stop talking. When Tabitha gets on a roll, she can be relentless.

Sparks folds her arms. “As fun as it sounds to watch Tabitha humiliate them, I’d rather we keep a low profile. Or at least not have them track us so easily.”

“Sure,” I reply. “We handle it in layers. We tweak the drone cameras around the perimeter, set up a few decoy deliveries that route off Valis. If they see us shipping ‘medical parts’ to some random dock, let them chase ghosts. Meanwhile, we keep forging sedation logs if we need to jump gates or bring new gear in. Right, Tabitha?”

She responds with a thoughtful hum. “You’re almost as paranoid as me, soldier boy, but you can’t rely on forging logs alone. People slip up. Digital footprints last forever.”

“I’ll handle it carefully,” I assure her. “We have to do something, though. If corporate mercs sniff how we operate, they’ll cut off every supply option. Or worse, show up uninvited.”

Sparks unclenches her jaw, relief in her eyes. “Right. I’ll start drawing up new sensor protocols.” She’s already flipping through screens on her datapad, eyebrows furrowed. “I’ll incorporate a scattering algorithm so any broad sweeps from orbiting drones see just another scrapyard.”

A voice rumbles from the corner of the hangar, accompanied by the shuffle of boots. “Scrapyard’s my specialty,” Patch announces as he steps into the overhead light, sporting a streak of engine grease along his cheek. “Still, I’d rather they didn’t torch my property trying to find you, kid.”

I grin. “This is your place, sure. But I’ve added enough bolts and paint to call it half mine.”

Patch snorts. “Only half? Keep it up, and you’ll be paying rent on the other half, too.” He swigs from a small flask he carries. “I hear some old squads are already fuming in their bunkers about a no-name pilot racking up big wins. Soon as they realize you’re more than a rumor, they’ll start pounding on that door.” He points to the double doors with his flask.

Sparks gestures to her datapad. “That’s exactly what I’m worried about.” With a curt nod, she heads off to begin her sensor upgrade chores, leaving me with Patch and the ambient hum of a half-busted overhead lamp.

I really hate that lamp.

I lean against Raven One’s elbow joint, letting my attention drift over the mech’s silhouette. A swirl of conflicting emotions dances in my head. Excitement, worry, the urge to keep building.

Tabitha whispers, “You know, you can’t be unstoppable if you’re too paranoid to open the hangar door.”

I rub the back of my neck, feeling the old kinks from our last mission. “I just want to be prepared,” I murmur.

Patch jostles me with a nudge to the shoulder. “Being prepared is good, but don’t let yourself drown in caution. You’ve got a real shot at something big here.” He glances at Raven One with almost paternal pride. “I never expected a scrawny kid with a half-functional exosuit to become a name mercs talk about. Brains beat brawn every damn time.” He offers me the flask. “Though a bit of muscle wouldn’t kill you, either.”

I shake my head, politely declining the drink. “Later, thanks. I’m saving my taste buds for something more celebratory.”

Patch smirks. “Suit yourself. More for me.”

Tabitha hums in my ear. “Sometimes, it’s nice to see these humans finally catching up,” she teases. “All that bravado about big mechs and bulging muscles, pfft. They never considered a scrawny pilot could outsmart them.”

Heat warms my cheeks at her words. Patch doesn’t notice, busy flipping a stray ratchet between his fingers. I hum in acknowledgment. I wonder if Tabitha really feels proud or if it’s me reading emotion into an AI’s voice. Either way, my chest feels lighter than it has in days. I flash a half-smile, trying not to look starstruck.

Tabitha interjects. “Don’t pretend you’re not touched by my pep talk, pal. I know your heartbeat better than you do.”

I cough into my fist. “All right, you’ve got a point. I appreciate the moral support. AI support?”

She laughs. “Support. No need to be speciesist.”

I exhale and turn to a small crate by Raven One’s foot, rummaging for the fresh can of paint I’ve been saving. I force the lid open with a flathead screwdriver. A pungent chemical aroma floods my nose. “Tabitha, think they’ll mind if I brand us a bit? Let the galaxy see we mean business?”

She purrs, “Oh, I love a good brand. Make it fierce, David.”

I nod. It’s a strong black paint that shines with a slight metallic gleam. I rummage further, pulling out a few stencils I’ve cut from scrap metal sheets. One reads TALON in sharp, angled letters. Another is a stylized 01. I draw a steady breath and approach Raven One’s shoulder plating, scanning for a relatively unblemished spot.

Patch watches me curiously. “You gonna pretty up your bird?”

“It’s time,” I reply. “We’ve called ourselves Talon for a while but never gave Raven One a proper emblem.” Carefully, I place the stencils side by side and press them flat so there won’t be any paint bleeds. Then, with slow, deliberate sweeps, I coat the letters. The brush rasps across the surface. My heart pounds a strange blend of pride and fear. Instead of the usual tension, I feel…free.

With the stenciling done, I step back to admire the lettering. TALON 01. The paint is glossy, the lines crisp. The moment feels bigger than a label. This is me, I think. Not a scrawny nobody from a neglected corner of the system but a pilot forging his own path. A flutter of adrenaline runs through me, the same rush I feel in the cockpit.

Patch whistles. “That’s a statement.”

I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. “It’s my little defiance for all the times people said I wasn’t enough.”

“Let’s see them try to laugh now,” Tabitha states.

Daylight creeps through the hangar’s parted doors. We must have spent hours fussing with the paint and minor repairs. The factory sprawl of Valis never truly sleeps, but the shift-change klaxons outside tell me the morning cycle is rolling in. My arms ache, my stomach growls, and my eyelids feel heavier than usual.

As if on cue, an incoming feed buzzes from Sparks’ improvised comm console. She’s stepped away from the immediate area, likely to cross-reference sensor algorithms, but I overhear chatter about rumors swirling around the black-market boards. Talon this, Talon that, a new infiltration mech.

The corners of my mouth lift. “They can whisper all they want,” I murmur. “We’ll back it up soon enough.”

Patch meanders back, carrying two dented metal cups and a bottle of questionable origin. “All right, you said you wanted to wait for something celebratory, kid. Think stenciling your big, scary name on the mech is reason enough?”

I chuckle. “More than enough. Didn’t think you actually wanted to share your stash.”

“Don’t get used to it,” he retorts, tipping the bottle to fill both cups. The liquid is a dark caramel color, smelling faintly of spiced grains. “I’d say it’s whiskey, but let’s call it a local creation. Rots your gut all the same.”

I accept a cup. The last time I tried Patch’s “local blends,” I ended up with a nasty headache. Still, the moment feels right. “To new beginnings?” I offer.

He smirks and raises his glass. “I’ll drink to that.”

We clink cups. The whiskey, if it deserves that name, burns my throat and warms my stomach in a single gulp. I exhale sharply, clearing my throat. “Never gets easier, does it?” I wheeze.

Patch laughs. “Nope.” He swirls his cup idly. “You know, kid, many folks think my salvage yard was a grand plan. Let me tell you something. It wasn’t.”

I raise an eyebrow, leaning in. “You always acted like it was your baby.”

He shrugs. “I was in a guard outfit once. Some corporate garrison, let’s keep it nameless. I, uh…might have taken a few things that weren’t exactly assigned to me.” He pauses with a crooked grin. “They kicked me out, and I found myself wandering, no real purpose. Ended up in a back-alley poker game. Bet a bunch of stolen scraps, ironically enough. Won myself the deed to my salvage yard.”

I try not to laugh at the image of Patch gambling away stolen goods. “You never told me that part.”

He takes another swig, then lowers his voice. “I keep it quiet, so folks think I had a solid plan all along. The truth is, I was roaming like a merit fish all over the ocean, figuring out the next step. When I saw your scrawny self rummaging for discount plating, I thought,‘Hell, he’s got more purpose than me . ’” He rubs the side of his neck. “We all walk weird paths. I guess you’re my second shot, so to speak.”

My brow furrows, and I blink away a surge of emotions. “Your second shot?”

Patch rolls his eyes as if annoyed by his own sentimentality. “Don’t make me say it twice, kid. You got moxie. I don’t wanna see you go down in flames. So yeah, maybe I’m living vicariously through you. Don’t fuck it up for me by dying.”

A grin tugs at my mouth. The best comment about caring I’m gonna get, I think. “I promise I’ll try to stay alive.”

He raises his cup, eyes glinting. “Good. Then do me a favor and keep surprising us all.”

We drink again. The whiskey sears my throat, but it’s a welcome burn. My gaze returns to Raven One’s new emblem, shining in the half-lit hangar. Tabitha, silent for the moment, seems to let me soak it all in. Even she recognizes that words can’t top the shared warmth.

I let the hush linger. Outside, the factory shift horns cut out, replaced by the mechanical droning of conveyor belts and shipping trucks.

A few of the newly installed perimeter cameras whir overhead, scanning for intruders. Sparks’ footprints echo from the far side of the hangar as she returns, saying something about algorithmic scaling. Everything feels precarious and perfect, like we’re on the cusp of something bigger. The place smells like fresh paint, leftover engine grease, and the faint tang of strong liquor.

Eventually, I turn to Patch again. “I appreciate the chance to set up shop here, you know. Even if it was only luck or a lost bet on your end.”

He shrugs. “You gave me drive, kid. I’d have gone stale peddling scraps if you hadn’t strolled in with your big ideas. Think of me as the sponsor you never asked for.”

Tabitha crackles in my earpiece. “A sponsor with questionable booze, but hey, it’s booze.”

I smirk and swallow the last of the whiskey from my cup. The sunrise outside creeps higher, painting the hangar’s interior with swirling patches of gold. “All right, sponsor,” I return. “I plan to keep building, forging sedation logs if I have to, weaving in new sensor arrays, and messing up every merc who tries to shut us down.”

Patch rubs his jaw. “Keep me in the loop, and try not to blow up my livelihood while you’re at it.”

I exhale. “Damn, so many requirements.”

We both laugh at that one for a good minute.

“It’s the booze. Don’t quit your day job.” Tabitha tells me.

Patch pats my shoulder and wanders off to check some crates near the corner, where Sparks has stacked leftover ammo. My arms and legs feel heavy, but my mind spins with possibilities. Another step forward, I think. We can’t slow down.

A ping on my personal HUD signals that Sparks has completed the perimeter sensor modifications. She straightens from the far console and announces, “Sensors online. We’ll see an intruder’s nose hair if they come within half a mile.”

Tabitha chimes in with a playful drawl. “That’s my kind of coverage.”

I give Raven One a parting tap on the fresh paint. My chest flutters again. The adrenaline from our last mission might have worn off, but an entirely new wave of excitement rushes through my veins. Though my body aches for sleep, I can’t imagine letting the day pass without reviewing the sensor logs or double-checking the new cameras Sparks installed.

I’d pushed us this far. Me, Tabitha, Sparks, Patch—we’ve become a small but determined crew. And now we have a name that resonates in dark corners of underworld markets and whispers across shady back rooms.

It’s not as impressive as the Wolverines. Yet.

They call us Talon. Maybe they’re laughing, or maybe they’re nervous. Either way, they’re talking. And I’m ready to show them brains and unstoppable nerve can carve out a legend from the dust.

I crouch to organize my painting supplies, setting the brush and stencils aside. My gaze keeps drifting to the fresh lettering, a promise to myself and the entire damn system that we’re not a fluke. I have a mental list of a thousand tasks. Forging safer shipping routes, stockpiling resources for Raven One’s upgrades, planning fallback strategies if corporate mercs arrive.

Patch’s earlier words still echo in my mind. You’re my second shot. Don’t fuck it up by dying. An odd hush settles over me, part humility, part attitude, and lots of determination. “I won’t,” I whisper to no one in particular. “Not if I can help it.”

Tabitha speaks in my ear. “I’m keeping you alive, David. Count on me.”

I feel absolutely certain that I can.