Draconis Military Starport, Reykjavik, Rasalhague
Rasalhague Military District, Draconis Combine
22 September, 3019
The sound of cold water rushing forth from a tap filled the small rest room. Splashing water onto his face, Sho-Sa Lloyd McGavin filled the polished metal mirror bolted to the wall. Squinting into his own familiar eyes he reviewed his freshly-shaven countenance. In spite of several jagged scars on his gaunt face, the middle aged man could still be considered handsome. Even wolfish. He let a thin smile play across his thin lips as he ran his wet hands through his light brown hair, pulling his thinning but still ample mane back tight against his head and securing the long, stringy mass into a ponytail, which he skillfully arranged into a knot at the back of his head.
He turned his pale blue eyes from his face to his immaculate white dress coat. He purposefully wore no embellishments or decorations, only rank insignia graced his collar. The awards left off the uniform were best left to the social generals, the likes of House Steiner; accoutrements for peacocks, an unnecessary extravagance for Bushi. He was the living testament to his service, and no decoration could stand in for his honor. His elegant DCMS dress uniform concealed every wound, other than a slight limp he openly attributed to arthritis, though the official record would attribute it to a shattered femur, a gift from a marauding periphery MechWarrior, only just mended. The Dragon’s honor at the expense of his body made manifest.
Today, and for the foreseeable future, it was to be the Dragon’s honor at the expense of his honor. His superior had recommended a medical retirement, and he was on the cusp of taking his own life when a shadow approached him as he convalesced; a compact bespectacled man, disarming in his serene presence as he was disconcerting. McGavin replayed the meeting in his mind.
McGavin’s eyes fluttered open at the sound silence. He was nonplussed to catch the form of a man at the foot of his bed, the room too dark for him to make out more than the silhouette of his visitor, save for the glint of medical equipment lights caught in a pair of corrective lenses.
“Sho-Sa McGavin, I presume?”
McGavin blinked, trying to focus on the man, before giving a grunt of confirmation. “Hai.”
Something in McGavin seemed to shift. Though he could not make out his mysterious visitor’s face, he felt a sudden reassurance. McGavin knew the man was no friend, but the interloper’s intentions aligned with McGavin’s sense of honor. The injured MechWarrior propped himself up.
“Sho-Sa, you’ve given the Dragon much. More than lesser men might. This was nothing less than your duty. You may fear that the Dragon now has no further use for you, and that you will be denied the honorable end you so desire. Fear not. You are more than a MechWarrior, and your use to the Dragon has not yet reached its end.”
The man paused, and in spite of the consternation rising inside of him McGavin craved more. “Go on.”
“You will be transferred to the Draconis High Command on Luthien, and from there you will be assigned as the personal liaison to a member of a minor house. I suspect this man of treachery, but I cannot prove it. I suspect you know what I am asking. If you wish to serve the Dragon, the posting is yours.”
The aging MechWarrior made no sound, but attempted to meet the eyes behind the glinting glasses, and nodded his ascention. For the Dragon, I am your tool.
McGavin shook himself from the memory. Making eye contact with his reflection one last time before unlocking the door and stepping out into unbelievable light and noise and then silence and void.
