As the sun climbed higher over the Tanaban Mountains, the reception center transformed into a bustling crossroads. The first batch of the 506th Regiment—Jack's group—had finally emerged from the grueling cycle of interviews and paperwork, now standing out in their stiff, unwashed fatigues. But the road from Juwark was still feeding the machine. More trucks arrived every hour, spilling out fresh recruits who still wore their civilian jackets and clutched worn suitcases, looking as lost as Jack had felt only hours ago.
Among the new arrivals, Jack spotted a lean young man with messy brown hair and a persistent squint. He was Peter Mogueny, a boy Jack had seen a thousand times leaning against the brickwork of the local grocer.
"Hey!" Peter shouted, jogging over as soon as he saw Jack's face. "Sterling? Is that you? I almost didn't recognize you without the grease on your face."
Jack smiled, offering a hand. "Peter. I didn't know you were in this draft cycle."
"I know those guys over there too,"
Peter said, gesturing toward a group of shivering recruits near the intake warehouse. "They're from 54th Street. Half the neighborhood is here, Jack. I'm from 40th street by the way."
Jack's eyes widened slightly. "40th? I'm from 39th. We were practically neighbors and I barely knew it."
"I guess the higher ups isn't subtle about all this." Peter said, shaking Jack's hand firmly.
"They're scooping up Marmello like a bucket of grain and pouring us all into one sack. I was worried I'd be the only one from my block, but I see familiar faces everywhere."
"Others are maybe just late," Jack said, looking at the fresh trucks. "But I'm sure they're coming. Every one of them."
A few minutes later, Kenlil and Tavros approached, their new boots clumping loudly on the gravel. Kenlil looked exhausted, his elven ears drooping slightly, while Tavros seemed to have already accepted the weight of his new life.
"What took you so long?" Jack asked, leaning against the side of a transport truck.
"Ah, shut up," Kenlil grumbled, rubbing his eyes. "Staring at a wall in silence for an hour while waiting for a name to be called isn't exactly a party, Jack. I'm bored, I'm stressed, and my knees feel like they're made of glass."
Tavros let out a deep, rumbling chuckle, wrapping a massive arm around Kenlil's narrow shoulders. "Heh. Looks like the little guy needs a drink."
"Don't tease him, Tav," Jack said with a grin. "He's going to be liquor-deprived for the foreseeable future. We all are."
"Don't remind me," Kenlil groaned.
Jack stepped back to introduce their new companion. "Ken, Tav, this is Peter from 40th Street. Peter, this large hunk of meat is Tavros Mulligan from 44th, and this elven fellow is Kenlil... well, he has a long name, but we just call him Ken. He's from Alpine Lake."
"How you doing?" Kenlil asked, perking up as they hopped onto the back of a parked truck to rest their legs. "Hey, Peter, you know Richard Summers? The Navy nerd?"
Peter's face lit up. "Richie? Yeah, I know him. Why? Is he here?"
"As if you aren't also a Navy nerd, Ken," Tavros teased, nudging the elf.
"Shut up, Tav! It's an honorable profession," Kenlil snapped before turning back to Peter.
"Yeah, he signed up with us. He told me his story that he was all set for the Navy—had the posters, the little model ships, the whole bit. Then the Army 'yoinked' his dream. He's probably in one of those intake lines right now, looking for a boat that isn't coming."
Peter laughed, the sound bright against the grim backdrop of the camp.
"No way! Richie swore he'd never serve anywhere but on a deck. He used to brag that he'd be an Admiral by thirty. I bet he's fuming."
"He is," Jack said, watching James, Philip, Luke, and Natalia emerge from the warehouse in their new green fatigues. "But he's here. We're all here."
The group reunited near the trucks. Jack shook Philip's hand, giving him a sturdy clap on the back. "Interview go well?"
"It went okay, I guess," Philip said, though he looked pensive.
Jack turned to Natalia, who was adjusting her collar with precision. "And you?"
"It's fine," she said shortly. She didn't elaborate, but her eyes weren't as tight as they had been that morning.
The camaraderie was interrupted by the sharp, metallic clang of a bell echoing from a large wooden building nearby.
"LUNCH TIME!" a Sergeant bellowed from the mess hall steps. "ALL RECRUITS REPORT TO THE MESS HALL IMMEDIATELY! IF YOU AREN'T SITTING IN FIVE MINUTES, YOU DON'T EAT!"
"Finally," Kenlil breathed, jumping down from the truck. "I'm so hungry I could eat the truck's tires."
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The Mess Hall was a mixture of noise, steam and the clatter of metal trays. For a military intake center, the spread was surprisingly lavish. The Republic, it seemed, wanted its soldiers to have one last memory of a full stomach before the lean weeks of bootcamp began.
There were long tables groaning under the weight of food tailored for the mixed-race force. For the humans, there was fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and thick cuts of steak. The elves had a selection of crisp vegetable salads and fruit medleys, while the beastfolk were served massive portions of rare meat and high-protein stews.
Luke sat down with a tray piled so high with chicken and steak that he could barely see over it. He took a massive bite, washed it down with a cold soda, and let out a long, contented sigh. "Ahhh... this is phenomenal. I wish every day was like this."
Kenlil, picking at a bowl of seasoned greens, looked at him skeptically. "I swear, Luke, you're going to remember this exact moment three weeks from now when we're chewing on dry hardtack in the rain. Don't get used to it."
"Hey, don't spoil it," Jack said, cutting into a piece of beef. "Since we're still here, let's enjoy it. Like it's our last meal."
"Well," Tavros said, his plate looking like a small mountain of ribs. "If our commanding officer lets us forage or hunt once we're in the field, I'm going to make sure it's always like this. I can track a stag through a thunderstorm."
"I'll handle the cooking." Oscar added, leaning in. "My dad was a chef. He spent years teaching me how to make something out of nothing. Whatever you hunt, I'll cook it so well you'll forget we're in a war."
James sat at the end of the table, his expression more guarded. "I love the optimism, guys. Really. But do you honestly think you'll be able to move after the physical training they're going to put us through? You'll be too tired to chew, let alone cook."
"Will we be allowed to use our magic?" Philip asked, looking at his hands. "I could give us all a rejuvenation spell after the drills. Keep our muscles from locking up."
James shook his head. "Only when permitted. Most bootcamps issue Null-bracelets. They lock your mana-veins so you can't rely on spells."
"Why?" Daniels asked, pausing with a fork halfway to his mouth. "Isn't that counter-productive? If we can use our magic, shouldn't we be practicing?"
"It's psychological," James explained. "They want to break you down. They want to see if you have the grit to keep marching when the 'easy way'—the magic—is taken away. If you can't function without your mana, you're a liability in a dead-zone."
The table went silent for a moment. The joy of the food dimmed slightly under the weight of James's words.
Jack took a slow bite of his meal, looking at the faces of his friends. "I guess that's the point of it all. When we're on the frontlines, we won't get to choose when we rest or when the magic works. It's a skill—being able to think clearly when you're wounded, tired, and have nothing left."
James nodded, a rare look of respect in his eyes. "Exactly."
Tavros broke the tension with a wide, toothy grin. "Don't worry about it too much. If your bodies aren't up to it, I'll just have to carry you all to the finish line."
Kenlil smirked, leaning back. "Really? You're going to carry all of us, Tav?"
"Maybe," Tavros said, reaching for a second helping of meat. "But only if you give me your dessert rations during mess hall."
The table erupted in chuckles, the sound of their shared laughter filling the hall. For a few brief minutes, they weren't the 506th Regiment or property of the Republic. They were just friends from Marmello, sharing a meal.
They called it the "Last Supper" later that night. Because as they finished their plates and looked at the empty trays, they realized the lightheartedness of their youth was sitting right there on the table, finished and done.