The sun was a pale yellow eye in a dusty sky. It watched, uncaring, as Leo Vance drove his shovel into the tired earth of his family's farm. Thud. The sound was hollow, a stark contrast to the frantic beat of his own heart. Each thrust was a battle against the dry, cracked ground that was slowly starving them.
Just one more row, he thought, the words a tired mantra in his head. Then I can check on Mother.
At eighteen, Leo's world was small and hard. It was this field, the worn-down farmhouse with its sagging porch, and the two people inside it who meant everything. His mother, Elara, was sick with the Ash-Lung, her cough a constant, rattling reminder of their fragility. His little sister, Mara, was only ten, but her eyes had already lost their childhood sparkle, replaced by a weary seriousness that made his heart ache.
He wiped sweat from his brow with a dirty sleeve, his gaze drifting over the field. He wasn't harvesting normal wheat. This was Ignis Wheat, its stalks emitting a faint, government-mandated greenish glow. This crop didn't feed people. Its Aetherium-infused grains were taken by the military to power their war machines—the very machines that had taken his father and were now draining the life from his home.
As he worked, a strange thing happened. The glow of the wheat began to pulse. It grew brighter, then dimmer, like a sickly, panicked heartbeat.
Leo froze, his muscles tensing. Not now.
This always happened when military vehicles came near. The Aetherium in the crops reacted to the energy of their engines. A desperate, foolish hope sparked in his chest.
Maybe it's just a supply truck. They're just coming for the wheat tithe. They've bled us dry already. There's nothing left to take.
Then he heard it. Not the familiar grumble of a heavy transport truck. This was a lower, smoother, more menacing sound. A predatory purr.
He slowly stood up straight, his hand shielding his eyes from the harsh light. Down the long, dirt road that was their only link to the outside world, a car was approaching. It was a sleek, slate-grey military sedan, its windows tinted black. It moved with a cold, official purpose that felt like a direct threat.
No. No, not this. Please.
This wasn't a vehicle for carrying goods. This was a vehicle for carrying death sentences.
The car didn't slow for the Johnson's farm. It didn't pause at the Miller's turnoff. It came straight for the Vance gate, as if pulled by an invisible string. The dust it kicked up was a brown fog that choked the daylight. It rolled to a perfect, silent stop right at the edge of their property.
The driver's door opened. A soldier stepped out. His uniform was a crisp, heartless grey, without a single wrinkle or speck of dust. His eyes performed a quick, impersonal scan of the farm, dismissing the poverty and the struggle. They were looking for an asset, not a home. They found Leo.
"Leo Vance?"
The man's voice was flat, devoid of any human warmth. It was the voice of a machine reading a script. Leo's mouth turned to sand. He couldn't form words. He could only nod, his grip on the shovel handle so tight his knuckles turned bone-white.
The soldier pulled a single, off-white envelope from his jacket. It was pristine. "By order of His Majesty, King Theron IV, and the Aethelgard War Council, you are hereby conscripted into the Royal Defense Force. Your country thanks you for your service."
Leo felt a cold knot of dread tighten in his stomach, so hard it made him feel sick. Service. That was the beautiful, poisonous word they had used for his father. Thomas Vance had "served." All his service had earned him was a folded flag and a silence that screamed through the house every single night.
"They… the wheat," Leo stammered, his voice shaking, betraying his fear. "The harvest… it's almost ready. Who will do it? My mother is sick… she can't… my sister is just a child…"
"Your duty is now with a rifle, not a plow," the soldier stated, his tone sharp and final, cutting off Leo's plea like a guillotine. He held out the envelope, a command, not an offer. "You will report to the Oakhaven Mustering Station by 0800 hours tomorrow. You will be processed and tested for Aegis Synergy. Failure to report is punishable by execution."
Execution. The word hung in the dry air, heavier than the summer heat. The punishment for refusing to go to your death was death itself. The world seemed to tilt on its axis. The soldier didn't wait for a reply. He placed the envelope in Leo's dirty, trembling hand. He turned, a perfect about-face, slid back into the car, and drove away. The dust settled behind him, and the silence that returned was deeper and more terrible than before.
Leo looked down at the envelope. It was so light. How could it feel like it was made of solid stone?
A soft, ragged cough came from the house. Then a small, scared voice pierced the quiet.
"Leo?"
Mara stood on the porch. The brave face she usually wore for her mother was gone. Now she was just a frightened little girl, clutching her rag doll, Pip, so tightly its seams threatened to burst.
Leo looked from her terrified face to the envelope in his hand. He looked at the glowing wheat field—the field that was his life, his inheritance, his prison. A powerful, primal fear washed over him, cold and sickening. He wanted to run. To scream. To throw the envelope into the river and hide in the woods like a hunted animal.
But he couldn't. He saw his father's face in his mind. He heard his mother's cough. He saw Mara's tears.
His fingers shook as he broke the wax seal and opened the envelope. The paper inside was crisp. The words were stark and final. CONSCRIPTION NOTICE. It was real.
He let the shovel fall from his hand. It clattered on the hard ground, the sound echoing like a funeral bell.
He was Leo Vance. A farmer. A son. A brother.
And now, he was a soldier.
He was not a hero. He was not brave. He was a scared boy who wanted to go home, but home was the very place he was being taken from.
And he was going to war.
---
(The following section is new, expanding on the journey and arrival at camp)
The walk to Oakhaven the next morning was the longest of his life. The goodbye with his mother and sister had been quiet and tearless, all their grief too deep for sound. He carried a small bag with a change of clothes, a piece of dry bread, and his father's broken pocket watch—a cold, metal ghost in his pocket.
The Mustering Station was a nightmare of noise and organized chaos. Hundreds of young men, boys really, were herded like cattle by barking sergeants. The air smelled of fear, sweat, and diesel fuel. Leo found his place in the 'V' line, feeling smaller and more insignificant than ever.
The boy in front of him was a giant, with shoulders like an ox and a loud, booming laugh that didn't quite reach his eyes. He was cracking jokes to anyone who would listen, a desperate attempt to shield himself from the same fear they all felt.
"Name?" a clerk behind a wooden table asked, not even looking up.
"L-Leo Vance."
The man ran a finger down a long list. "Vance. Farm district 7-B. Conscripted." He shoved a bundle of rough, grey cloth into Leo's arms. It was coarse and smelled of cheap soap. "Your new life. Find a bunk in Bay 4. You ship out to Camp Aethel at dawn. Don't be late."
The uniform felt like a betrayal against his skin. It was a prison suit, marking him as property of the King's army.
Bay 4 was a massive, drafty barn of a building, filled with row upon row of narrow, squeaky cots. The air was thick with the scent of nervous sweat and strong disinfectant. Leo found an empty bunk near the back and sat down, dropping his head into his hands. The weight of it all was crushing him.
"Tough break, farm boy."
Leo looked up. The giant from the line was standing there, tossing his own bag onto the adjacent bunk.
"The name's Rourke," he said, flashing a grin that was part confidence, part bravado. "Looks like we're bunkmates. Don't look so down. How bad can it be? Three meals a day, a roof over our heads..."
Before Leo could form a reply, a voice like cracking thunder silenced the entire bay.
"ON YOUR FEET, YOU MAGGOTS!"
The man who entered was unlike anyone Leo had ever seen. He seemed carved from granite and pure fury. This was Master Sergeant Kaelen Voss. His eyes, cold and assessing, scanned the room, and every boy they touched seemed to shrink.
"For the next ten weeks," Voss began, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that demanded absolute attention, "I am your god. Your mother doesn't love you anymore. Your father is ashamed of you. Your only family is the man standing next to you, and your only purpose is to listen, to obey, and not to die. You are not soldiers. You are soft, useless, pathetic lumps of clay. And I am here to mold you into something the King's army won't be completely ashamed to send to the meat grinder."
He stalked down the rows, his gaze a physical weight.
"You," he said, stopping in front of a skinny, trembling boy with glasses. "What's your name, worm?"
"F-Finnick Albright, sir!"
"Louder!"
"Finnick Albright, sir!" the boy squeaked, his voice breaking.
"What did you do before you were worthless, Albright?"
"I was a clerk, sir! In logistics!"
Voss's lip curled in a sneer. "A paper-pusher. Wonderful. The Vorlag Empire will be trembling." He moved on, his eyes landing on a boy who stood unnaturally straight, his chin held high with pride. "And you?"
"Lysander Croft, sir! I volunteered!"
Voss's expression didn't flicker. "A volunteer. You think that makes you special? Your corpse will rot just as fast as his." He jerked a thumb towards a pale, shaking recruit nearby.
Finally, his predatory gaze settled on Leo and Rourke.
"You two. The ox and the farm boy. Think you're special because you found a friend? Wrong."
Rourke opened his mouth to retort, but Voss was in his face in an instant.
"SHUT YOUR MOUTH! You do not speak unless I give you permission!" He then turned the full force of his glare onto Leo. "You. Vance. I can smell the dirt on you from here. You think you're strong because you can shovel manure? You think you know about hard work?" He leaned in so close Leo could see the scars on his face. "The war doesn't care about your calluses. The war will eat you alive and spit out your bones for the dogs."
Leo felt his face burn with a mix of fear and shame. He stared at the floor, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
"LOOK AT ME WHEN I'M TALKING TO YOU, BOY!" Voss roared, the sound vibrating in Leo's teeth.
Terrified, Leo forced his head up, meeting the Sergeant's icy eyes. The man saw right through him.
"I see it," Voss hissed, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "Right there. The fear. You want to run. You're thinking about it right now." He paused, letting the truth of it sink in. "Let me give you your first and only piece of friendly advice. Don't. The only thing waiting for you out there is a court-martial and a firing squad. In here, with me, you have a chance. A small, pathetic, miserable chance. But a chance nonetheless."
He straightened up and addressed the silent, terrified bay.
"Get some sleep. If you can. Tomorrow, the easy part is over. Tomorrow, you belong to me."
With that, he turned and marched out. The room remained silent for a full ten seconds before erupting into a nervous, chaotic murmur.
Rourke let out a low whistle and sat on his bunk. "Well... he seems lovely."
Leo didn't answer. He just stared at the scratchy, grey uniform on his lap. Sergeant Voss was right. He was terrified. And he was trapped. The walls of the bay felt like they were already closing in, and his training hadn't even begun.