Jurpat and Fenn hauled Vaeliyan out of the reflecting pool with the slow, efficient rhythm of soldiers doing something necessary, not cruel. The golden water still clung to his skin, mixing with the dark sheen of blood that hadn't yet dried. He didn't resist when they lifted him by the arms, his boots dragging behind, his breath shallow and even. His head lolled forward, eyes half open, tracking the lights overhead as they passed through the long corridor. There was no protest, no defiance. He had already said it, he deserved this. It was done.

Helen walked ahead of them, her hands clasped behind her back, stride precise and unfaltering. The rest of the squad followed in silence, shadows cutting across the dim slate walls. The only sounds were the echo of their boots and the distant hum of machinery beneath the Citadel's skin. Each step felt like punctuation, a rhythm of consequence. They all knew what this meant, what it cost, what it repaired.

When they reached the med-vat chamber, the blue glow bled through the glass before the door even opened. A solid sheet of color that painted their faces in electric light. The air carried a metallic tang and sterilized heat. Helen pressed the door release with one finger, and the panel slid aside with a sigh of air.

"There," she said, voice flat and unbothered. "Toss him in. He'll be fine soon enough."

They stepped into the chamber. The walls were black stone polished to a perfect mirror, reflecting the vat's light until the entire space shimmered like it was underwater. The ceiling was lost in shadow. The floor glowed in faint white lines, guiding them to the center where the vat waited, its surface rippling softly, alive with that deep blue shimmer. It looked less like a medical tool and more like a door to somewhere you didn't come back from the same.

Jurpat and Fenn didn't pause. There was no ceremony in this. They lifted Vaeliyan higher, counted once under their breath, and dropped him in. The blue gel folded around him instantly. The splash slapped against the stone, staining their boots before sliding back into place. The gel sealed shut, smooth and bright as molten glass. Vaeliyan sank without resistance, the glow of the fluid outlining him in harsh light before swallowing him whole. Within seconds, there was nothing left but the light.

Helen handed a data pad to Sylen. "Formal wear options," she said, like she was passing a clipboard. "Command wants you looking like High Imperators for the ceremony." She studied them for a moment, her eyes cold but steady. "We'll see you in thirty." Then she turned and left, the door sealing behind her with a quiet hiss. The silence she left behind felt heavier than her presence.

The squad let out a collective exhale. A few of them leaned back against the wall, others dropped into the sleek black chairs lined along the room's edge. The air felt still, too clean, almost sacred. The only sound was the low hum of the med systems and the faint pulse of the vat cycling its glow. The chamber looked like a cathedral built for machines.

Chime was the first to speak, voice cutting through the quiet. "We should probably figure out what we're going to call ourselves," she said, folding her arms, leaning back in her chair until it creaked. "Can't exactly walk into a ceremony without a name."

Ramis raised a brow. "You mean other than 'that one squad who beat the shit out of their leader in the commander's pool'?"

A few soft laughs. "Catchy," Lessa muttered.

Chime rolled her eyes. "I'm serious. We can't keep being 'Vaeliyan's squad.' Not after this." She nodded toward the vat where the blue light still swirled faintly. "Screw that guy."

"Strong words for someone who couldn't even land a clean hit," Fenn said, grinning.

"That's because he cheats," Chime shot back. "You ever try fighting a man who doesn't feel pain?"

"Yeah," Ramis said. "Once. I broke my hand."

They laughed again. The laughter felt strange, raw, almost fragile, but it stuck. The first sound of life in the room since the splash.

Xera was the one who finally humored her. "Alright then, genius. What are we calling ourselves, if not after the man in the fish tank?"

Chime's grin widened like she'd been waiting for the setup. "Easy. The Chime Squad."

Silence. Then, in perfect unison, everyone groaned.

Sylen didn't even bother to lift her eyes from the data pad. "It's the perfect name, for a narcissist."

"You're all just jealous," Chime said, trying to sound wounded and failing miserably.

"No," Sylen replied, tone dry as sand. "I'm just amazed you said it out loud."

The laughter came harder this time, echoing off the stone, tangled with the steady hum of the machines. For a moment, it almost drowned out the faint sound of movement in the vat. Vaeliyan's body twitched under the surface, the blue light pulsing brighter in rhythm with the laughter before fading again. The noise didn't reach him. But if it had, he would've smiled too.

They had argued back and forth for what felt like forever while Vaeliyan healed in the med-vat. The chamber was lit only by the heavy, unrelenting blue glow, the air humming with the quiet pulse of the machine. Every few seconds, his body twitched or arched, his skin rippling where the gel forced nerves to reattach and bones to align. His breath came in sharp bursts, muffled by the liquid. The squad watched without flinching. They'd done this to him. He'd agreed to it. It was ugly, but it was fair.

The silence between the screams was unbearable, so they talked. It was easier to fill the room with noise than to listen to him heal.

Chime lounged across a low bench, tapping her foot against the floor like she was keeping time with the sound of his heartbeat in the tank. "We need a name," she said for the third time. "Something sharp. Something that doesn't sound like we belong in a filing cabinet."

Sylen sat across from her, legs crossed, attention half on a data pad glowing in her lap. "You've said that before."

"And I'll keep saying it until you admit 'Maintenance Crew' is the dumbest name I've ever heard."

"It's not dumb," Sylen said. "It's accurate. We fix things. Broken tech, broken people, broken situations."

"Exactly," Chime said, pointing at her. "Boring."

Ramis snorted. "You'd rather we call ourselves something dramatic like 'The Crimson Phoenixes' or something stupid?"

"Don't tempt me," Chime shot back. "I'll make it work."

Jurpat stretched his arms behind his head. "Fenn suggested we go by 'Blank.' No name, just empty brackets on the registry."

That got Elian's attention. "Do you realize how many bureaucratic systems that would break? The Legion would implode. Every requisition order, every chain of command form, it'd all throw errors."

Chime grinned. "So, we'd be famous."

Sylen didn't even look up. "For being administrative disasters."

"That's still fame." Chime nodded. Jurpat added, "Hey, we'd go down in history as the first squad to have to give an apology to Command for crashing their whole filing system."

"Perfect," Chime said. "Our legacy: paperwork and rage."

Lessa leaned forward, chin on her palm. "What about something neutral, like 'Task Force Ninety'?"

Everyone groaned.

"Why not just name us 'Super lame' while you're at it?" Ramis said.

They went on like that for long minutes, throwing names, mocking each other, and shooting down ideas as fast as they came. Half of them were jokes, half had real potential, and every single one died under laughter or sighs. Through it all, Vaeliyan kept writhing in the vat, the blue gel flaring brighter each time his body spasmed. They ignored it because there was nothing to do but wait. The sound of pain had become background noise, like a heartbeat under conversation.

Eventually, the seal on the vat shifted and broke its rhythm. The blue glow intensified, and the squad quieted as the lid began to open. Light bled out across the black stone floor. The liquid's surface rippled, then parted as Vaeliyan emerged from it, dripping, skin shining with fluid and faint light. His eyes were clear and sharp. Whatever agony he'd endured was already gone from his expression.

He stepped out barefoot, grabbed a towel from the rail, and started wiping the gel from his shoulders. Nobody spoke. They just watched him, waiting for whatever came next.

He finally looked at them and said, calm and certain, "I've got it."

Chime groaned, head tilting back against the wall. "Of course you do. We already vetoed 'Vaeliyan Squad.'"

"I wouldn't use that name," he said, tone clipped. "That's damn stupid."

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

"Then what?" Sylen asked, leaning forward.

"We're the Complaints Department."

That earned him several blank looks and one soft laugh from Jurpat. Elian was the first to ask, "Why the Complaints Department?"

Vaeliyan leaned against the vat's edge, the blue light still haloing him. "Because every time something breaks, they'll send us to fix it. Every time Command needs to hide a problem, we'll be the ones they use. Either we'll get the complaints, or we'll be the ones dealing with them. And by the time we're done, there won't be any complaints left."

No one spoke. The hum of the machines filled the silence. Chime rubbed her face with both hands. "You actually thought about that, didn't you?"

He nodded once. "I did."

Sylen sighed. "Honestly, it's not bad."

"It's better than 'Maintenance Crew,'" Ramis added.

Varnai folded her arms. "Maybe. But it's your squad in the end, it's your call."

Vaeliyan smirked, a sharp glint catching in the blue light. "Alright, then. Vaeliyan Squad it is."

Every single one of them groaned in perfect harmony.

Chime pointed at him, eyes narrowing. "Do you want us to put you back in there?"

Vaeliyan's grin widened. "You could try."

That broke them. Laughter echoed through the chamber, rolling across black stone and glowing light. Even Sylen cracked a small smile. Beyond them, the vat pulsed once, blue on black, sealing the moment in its glow.

The formal wear had been delivered in a set of sealed black cases, each embossed with the Legion's true emblem: the Fist of the Legion. When they opened them, the blue light from the med-vat shimmered across the neatly folded suits and dresses inside. The air smelled faintly of iron and treated silk, with a crisp undertone of sterilized fabric. This wasn't armor. It wasn't combat gear. It was ceremony, something sacred, something sharp.

Each case was arranged with mechanical precision. Every jacket lay folded beside its matching slacks, gloves, and boots, and the shimmer of the nano-weave cast ghostlike reflections along the black stone walls. The suits were sharper, more structured, and far more extravagant than anyone had expected. The Legion didn't waste resources, but this was indulgence built on purpose. These were not garments for comfort or pageantry alone; they were armor disguised as elegance.

Each jacket carried a split double collar, one traditional fold and another that rose like a blade tracing the line of the jaw. The cuffs matched the design: layered inversions of each other, as though crafted to argue symmetry. The tailoring hugged the body tightly at the torso, with just enough give through the arms and shoulders to move without strain. A narrow black tie completed the ensemble, understated against the living shimmer that rippled through every thread. When someone moved, the light caught, fractured, and flowed like liquid steel.

Across the heart of every uniform rested the symbol of the Legion's identity, the Fist of the Legion. It was not printed or stitched, but raised and alive. The emblem was a clenched fist composed of countless screaming skulls, each one caught mid-wail, endlessly shifting within the form. Their hollow sockets flickered with cold silver light, rearranging in patterns that never repeated. Beneath the fist, two white laurels curved upward, their edges catching the faint blue reflection from the med-vat. Together they formed a crest that seemed to breathe with violence and purpose.

The nano-weave itself pulsed like a living organism. Geometric patterns moved across the surface of the fabric, refracting and bending light to create the illusion of constant motion. Tiny hexes of silver and dark graphite expanded and collapsed, reacting to the wearer's pulse, movement, and even temperature. The suits and dresses shimmered in waves, alive, aware, and unnervingly beautiful.

Chime whistled, her reflection caught in the glossy wall beside the cases. "Damn," she said, dragging a fingertip along the sleeve of one jacket. "They actually expect us to look civilized."

Rokhan tugged a jacket free, watching the light ripple over his arm. "These things look like they cost more than a skycraft."

"Probably do," Ramis said. "The Legion doesn't half-ass ceremony."

Torman had been quiet until then, crouched near one of the open cases, running a thumb along the inner seams of the fabric. "You know," he said finally, "the shimmer isn't just for show. There's a micro-projector running through the layers of the nano-weave. It's built between the fibers, projects light refraction patterns. You can change the visuals if you've got clearance. Order new shimmer flows, different patterns. The weave's practically programmable."

Chime blinked. "You actually know that?"

He shrugged. "I like weaving. Always have. This stuff's insane. When you said these cost more than a skycraft, you were underselling it. Try double that. The threads are multi-phase filament, flame-resistant, flechette-proof, and engineered to stay cool under pressure. You could walk through a burning wreck in this, and it wouldn't even wrinkle."

Roan raised a brow. "You're saying these are combat suits?"

Torman smiled faintly, fingers tracing the Legion emblem over his chest. "Formal wear for High Imperators. Made for killers. They don't look comfortable, but they are. Smooth as silk, easy to move in, light enough to forget you're wearing anything heavy. If we need to fight during a speech, we won't have to change first."

Ramis laughed, his reflection caught in the sheen of his jacket. "That's insane."

"Yeah," Torman said, adjusting his cuffs. "That's Legion."

The dresses were no less intricate. They shared the same dark-slate tone, but the shimmer within them flowed like captured starlight. Threads of silver and pale blue chased each other across the surface, folding into slow, hypnotic spirals. Every movement sent a wave of light cascading down from the shoulder to the hem, subtle and ghostly. Each came with an optional bustle attachment, a sculpted, ceremonial accessory that looked more like ornamental plating than fabric.

Sylen stared at hers, unimpressed. "I'm not wearing this." She gripped the bustle and ripped it free with one sharp pull, the magnetic fastenings separating cleanly. "No chance I'm walking into a room looking like a display dummy."

Lessa scrolled through the holo-catalog without looking up. "You didn't have to pick one with the bustle. There's literally an alternate version in the set." She flicked her wrist, projecting the alternate model onto Sylen's data pad. "Same dress, no extra furniture."

Sylen blinked down at it, groaned, and muttered, "I just clicked the first one I saw."

Varnai grinned. "Figures."

Fenn chuckled from across the room. "Command's going to think you're making a statement."

"I am," Sylen said dryly, folding her arms. "Statement is: I'm not wearing a dress with furniture attached."

Laughter rolled through the room, bouncing off the polished stone. The glow from the med-vat flickered against the nano-weave, scattering light like ripples across a mirrored lake. Every motion of fabric caught the glow, turning them all into shifting silhouettes of blue and silver.

Wesley finally shrugged into his jacket, twisting to catch his reflection. "Okay," he said. "I'll admit it, this looks good. The cuffs are still ridiculous, though."

"They're fashion," Lessa said without looking up.

"They're stupid," Xera replied, smirking.

Ramis adjusted his collar, glancing down at the emblem on his chest as the skulls rearranged themselves in a slow, silent scream. "Stupid or not," he said, "we look like we could break a gala in half."

Torman snorted softly. "That's the point."

The laughter faded again, replaced by the hum of the med systems. From the vat came the faint sound of motion, slow, steady. The blue glow deepened, and the Legion's emblem reflected across the glass, a thousand tiny fists of screaming skulls staring back at them. Ceremony or not, this was who they were, killers dressed as nobility, beauty forged from violence, and pride made visible through pain.

Helen walked in at exactly the thirty-minute mark, as if the entire world ran on her timing. She saw that the squad was already lined up, fully dressed in their shimmering formal wear, the Fist of the Legion gleaming faintly on every chest. Her eyes swept the group once, sharp and precise, taking in every collar, every crease, every movement. "Good," she said finally. "You look almost respectable. Let's see if you can keep it that way."

She stepped forward and handed Vaeliyan a data pad, the screen flickering to life as it recognized his touch. "Can you fill out this paperwork for me before we head out? It's about your new squad's name." Her voice held that particular blend of authority and amusement that made it impossible to tell whether she was impressed or mocking them. "And just so you know, I did hear everything. High Commander Ruka has not. I think it's hilarious. But she's going to hate it. Doesn't matter, though. She's not the one who gets to pick it."

The squad froze for a heartbeat, then relaxed almost in unison. Even Vaeliyan cracked a small grin. "Well, at least we get to use this joke for the rest of our time in the Legion."

"Oh, it'll last much longer than that," Helen said, folding her arms as she watched him fill in the fields. "There will be holo recordings. As long as you have victories worth showing, those recordings will circulate through every major city. The name you've chosen will be broadcast alongside every success you achieve. Our work is never done, as you know. And the Legion never forgets its icons."

"Fair enough," Vaeliyan said, finishing the last of the inputs before passing the data pad back. "We'll try not to embarrass the brand."

Helen smiled faintly at that. "That's all I can ask." She looked over the group one last time, then said, "Once you're done, follow me to… well, you'll see. Just follow me."

They didn't need to be told twice. The squad fell in behind her, boots clicking in unison against the polished black stone floor. The corridors curved downward as they walked, each turn leading them deeper into the base. The lights dimmed slightly with each level, and the hum of machinery faded into a low, steady rhythm that sounded almost like a heartbeat. The air grew cooler, thinner, the walls lined with faintly glowing conduits that pulsed in slow synchronization.

Helen's stride never faltered. "Just so you're aware," she said, her tone conversational but deliberate, "High Commander Ruka has decided it would be in your best interests for her to announce your rise to the High Command Council. The formal statement will be made within the hour. Once that's done, your ranks will be public record, and your unit's status will be recognized by every Legion branch across the southern front."

Vaeliyan raised a brow. "So, it's official?"

Helen nodded. "High Imperator Kasala already filed the paperwork for your promotions and final evaluations. You've all completed your apprenticeships. As of this morning, you're no longer cadets. You are full Legion." She slowed slightly, glancing back at them. "And for what it's worth, you've done something very few manage without breaking. That will be noticed."

Her words carried weight. Even Chime, who had been idly examining her new cuff design, straightened her shoulders. There was a hum of quiet pride through the group, a shared realization that the Citadel was behind them now, and the real war waited ahead.

Helen continued, "Again, I do think this group will be rather special. I was the one who secured the holo records for High Commander Ruka's review beforehand. Lucky for her. And for me." There was the faintest curl of humor at the corner of her mouth. "I like being the one who spots talent before the brass realizes what they're looking at."

Vaeliyan studied her carefully. "You always plan this far ahead?"

Helen met his gaze. "Of course. Planning is how humanity has survived this long." Her tone softened slightly. "And besides, I've been in this long enough to recognize potential when I see it."

She stopped at a large sealed door that opened at her approach, revealing another corridor lit by pale green light. "I'll be giving your mission briefings for now," she said, stepping aside so they could pass through first. "But I'm not your handler. That'll be Julian Francis once you're officially stationed. My position is, and remains, as High Commander Ruka's assistant. I just happen to work directly with your unit when necessary."

Vaeliyan moved past her but paused just long enough to meet her eyes. There was something there, an unspoken understanding, something sharp and calculating beneath her calm expression. He'd always known that everyone in the Green had layers beyond what they showed, but Helen was different. There was something behind the professional poise, something colder, more dangerous, and infinitely more deliberate.

As the door sealed behind them and their footsteps echoed into the depths, Vaeliyan couldn't help but think that whatever came next, Helen wasn't just another officer passing through their orbit. She was a strategist in her own right, one who already knew where every piece would fall long before the rest of them even stepped onto the board.

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