Caleb hauled his canvas duffel bag through the steel blast doors of the Seventh Division staging bay. The transit rail ride from his apartment took two hours. He shivered in the cold air. The military grid operated around the clock, and recruits had to finish in processing before morning orientation.
Twelve recruits stood in the staging line. Only twelve out of the eighty who survived the urban zone.
"Form a line. Shirts off."
A medical technician rolled a diagnostic cart down the row. He carried a handheld scanner.
Caleb pulled his gray undershirt over his head and dropped it onto the bench.
The technician stopped in front of him. He swept the blue laser grid over Caleb's torso. The machine chimed an error tone.
The tech tapped the side of the device. He looked at Caleb's chest, then at the screen.
"Your file says you took a blunt force impact from a Danger Class 6 yesterday," the tech muttered. "Shattered clavicle. Three fractured ribs. Internal hemorrhaging."
Caleb kept his breathing even. "The combat stims did their job."
Leaning closer, the tech pressed a gloved thumb against the bruising wrapping Caleb's right bicep and ribs. The purple skin was fading to yellow. Beneath the flesh, the bone held solid.
A starving heat flared behind Caleb's sternum. The parasite reacted to the pressure. It demanded calories. It had cannibalized the last traces of the stimulant to knit the bone, leaving a hollow void in his stomach. Caleb locked his jaw and suppressed a violent cramp.
"Stims do not knit bone in twelve hours," the tech said.
"I heal fast," Caleb said.
The tech stared at him. He lowered the scanner and hit a hard reset button to clear the error code. "The Seventh needs bodies on the line, not in the medical bay. You are cleared."
Caleb slipped his shirt back on to hide the jagged scar running down his chest. He hoisted his duffel bag and followed the yellow painted arrows toward the armory.
Heavy steel mesh separated the recruits from rows of tactical gear. Caleb stepped up to the counter and dropped his ruined disposal jacket onto the metal surface.
The quartermaster snatched the jacket and tossed it into an incinerator bin. He pulled down a pile of dark gray fabric and black armor plating, shoving it across the counter.
"Put it on."
Caleb pulled the canvas underlayer over his shoulders. It fit tight. The smart fibers adjusted to his core body temperature. He strapped the carbon fiber chest plate over his ribs. Scratches marred the surface of the metal. Surplus gear.
He snapped the buckles on the thigh rigs and slid into his combat boots. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the matte black Seventh Division pin. He drove the needle through the thick collar of the uniform.
The quartermaster turned around and slapped a stack of manila folders onto the counter. A black pen rolled across the surface.
"Standard Form 8 B," the quartermaster grunted. "Next of kin. Debt inheritance. Organ salvage rights. Disposal of remains."
Caleb picked up the pen.
"The Guild claims Kaiju touched corpses for biological research," the quartermaster continued. "Your family gets the pension. The base salary routes directly to your debt."
Caleb clicked the pen. He signed his name on the dotted line. He flipped the page to another signature box.
"How many of these are there?" Caleb asked.
The quartermaster tapped the paper. "Sign all eight. We like to be thorough."
Ten minutes later, Caleb pushed open the door to Barracks 4.
The narrow room contained a steel footlocker and a stiff mattress wrapped in factory plastic. Light leaked from the hallway grate.
He dropped his duffel bag onto the floorboards. The heavy armor plates dragged at his shoulders. He sat on the edge of the mattress and rested his forearms on his knees. His right arm ached. The parasite under his sternum ground against his empty stomach, demanding thousands of calories.
He unzipped the side pouch of his duffel bag. He reached in and pulled out the matte black comms chip.
Static hissed from the tiny speaker.
[???] I told you to put it back, Caleb. I like hearing you breathe when you are tired.
Caleb remained perfectly still. The hacker had hijacked the military grid again. She watched the tavern celebration.
[???] You looked good in the black uniform. But I did not like the way that corporate doll put her hands on your collar. She touched what is mine. Your old friend does not get to play hero anymore, either. Put the chip in.
Caleb processed the math of his reality. She dropped an Executive tier capsule that saved his life. She bought his broadcast rights and paid his medical bills. Confronting an anonymous billionaire hacker who possessed military staff bordered on suicidal.
But he was a thirty year old man who scrubbed gutters to survive. He knew when he was outgunned, and he knew when a deal required boundaries.
"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 will wipe your division assignment from the military grid right now.
"Do it," Caleb answered smoothly.
The static cut out. The barracks went quiet.
"You delete my assignment, I lose my salary," Caleb continued. "I go back to the disposal yards. I scrub rotting bone marrow for thirty credits a cycle. No combat. No Kaiju. No entertainment for you."
He rested the chip on the steel footlocker.
"You want a show, you need me on the front lines. I need sleep to hold a rifle. I am not a pet."
He reached up and flicked off the overhead bulb. The barracks plunged into darkness.
"Call a truce, or find another streamer."
The chip sat silent on the metal locker for a full minute. She possessed the power to ruin his life with a single keystroke.
A single green light blinked on the surface of the chip.
[???] Four hours. Then you are mine again.
A slow exhale escaped Caleb's lungs. He picked the chip up and pressed the adhesive firmly into the skin behind his right ear. A sharp sting locked the hardware back into his flesh.
He collapsed backward onto the stiff mattress.